Honor and Faith
by A Hairy Burrito
Summary: After being thrown into the tides of the Warp, the Space Marines of the Iron Sentinels chapter find themselves thrown into the mythical past of mankind and engaged in a war that threatens to see humanity wiped out. Threatened on all sides by Chaos and heresy, will they succumb or remain faithful to the Emperor's Light?
1. The Fires of Heresy

**_It is the 41st Millennium. For more than a hundred centuries The Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the Master of Mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly die._**

 ** _Yet even in his deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the Warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor's will. Vast armies give battle in his name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst his soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Imperial Guard and countless planetary defence forces, the ever vigilant Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants - and worse._**

 ** _To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruelest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods._**

 _Prologue: The Fires of Heresy_

Arthan Prime, once a prosperous hive world, burned as it floated in the void. Once, it had been the home of over thirty billion Imperial citizens and the source of labor for the nearby forge world of Arthan Gamma, which supplied dozens of Imperial Guard regiments in turn. Covered in vast manmade spires of adamantium, it had been the crown jewel of the Arthan subsector.

Now it was lost. Its populace had been turned from the Emperor's light through the machinations of Chaos, and the subsector had burned in the flames of rebellion. When the planetary defense troopers and local Guard regiments had proven insufficient, the mighty Space Marines had answered the call and delivered the Emperor's Justice to the heretics through bolter and chainsword, and when those had proven insufficient for the task and the world decided lost, Exterminatus. Now, as Arthan Prime twisted and writhed in its death throes, the Space Marines of the Iron Sentinels chapter hunted for the instigator of the revolt, a Thousand Sons sorcerer known to the Imperium as Azar.

Yet the tides of fate are fickle indeed…

* * *

Brother-Captain Nemros stared at the dying world far beneath his feet through the command deck of the battle-barge _Duty's Shadow_. It was, he thought, the least he could do. To dismiss the weight of one's actions was to risk damnation, and so he watched as the former hive world began to slowly collapse inwards, being torn apart by the rampant seismic activities unleashed by the _Shadow_ 's cyclonic torpedoes.

It was by his hand that Arthan Prime burned. It had been he who had sent word to the Chapter Master recommending the destruction of the once-loyal planet once it became clear to him that his company was incapable of securing it for the Imperium again, and it had been he who passed on the order to the gunnery crews when the Chapter Master ordered him to prevent the further spread of Chaos through fiery destruction. Even now though, the vile traitor that had orchestrated all of this remained at large.

The purgation of Arthan Prime had been no victory, and the continued survival of Azar the Calculating was ash upon Nemros' tongue. He would know no rest until the heretic had been brought to justice at the tip of his power sword.

The slow pounding of ceramite-clad feet against the command deck, accompanied by the rhythmic tapping of a force staff, alerted him to the approach of one of his brothers, though he remained staring at the world he had killed.

"Brother-Captain," came the dry tone of the Epistolary behind him.

"Vargus," he replied, turning to face the blue-clad Librarian. "Have you had any more luck in your search?"

"No, unfortunately. The foul heretic twists the Warp about him masterfully, using it as a shroud to hide himself from me. It will still be some time before I will be able to begin unravelling the ever-changing threads of the Immaterium that shelter him."

"Hmm," Nemros rumbled. This was unacceptable. The mighty auspex utilized by the _Shadow_ 's machine spirit as the ship's eyes had been unable to locate the traitor ship within the debris field that encircled Arthan Prime, meaning that Vargus' mastery of the Warp had been his only other option for finding their foe, a sorcerer of the Thousand Sons traitor legion.

"How fares Sergeant Herox?" he asked. The assault marine squad leader had lost a hand to a heretic wielding a stolen bolt pistol during the initial landing, and had been confined to the Apothecarium since while the apothecaries replaced the missing appendage with a bionic.

"Eager to be up and dispensing the Emperor's Justice once more," Vargus said in a tone that suggested that he had expected no less from an assault marine sergeant.

With a chuckle and a small movement of his power armor-clad hand, Nemros dismissed Vargus and turned back towards the command deck's viewport. Despite the traitor's cowardice and success up until now, he was confident in the _Shadow_ 's crew and their ability to intercept any attempt to move to the planet's Mandeville point. One less blasphemous soul would trouble humanity by the end of this day.

* * *

Azar, known to his brothers in the fifteenth legion as Azar the Calculating, stared at the loyalist battle-barge as it hung in orbit over his greatest triumph yet. Beneath a leering mask of Warp-touched ceramite, scarred and mutated lips twisted into a hidden smirk.

Tzeentch was smiling upon him, the fickle attention of the God of Lies focused solely upon him in this moment as he stood aboard the bridge of the _Unspeakable Knowledge_. It was a satisfying reward for all of the unseen effort he had put into corrupting the corpse-worshipping fools, and he reveled in the attentions of the Neverborn that sang his praises throughout the Warp. After naught but a few whispered promises, the bloated nobility of Arthan Prime had willingly given themselves over to his patron deity in the hopes of achieving even more power over their subjects. Eventually they had succeeded in opening a rift into the Warp out of which millions of daemons had poured through and the cultists were ripped to shreds by the very creatures they had hoped to master, their souls devoured by the animalistic daemons.

PDF troopers and Imperial Guard soldiers had moved to halt the flow of the monstrosities invading their homeworld, but had been confounded by conflicting orders from their superiors. When two regiments had been lured into a trap and either destroyed or driven to madness by the Tzeentchian daemons that they had sought to oppose, the entire Imperial command structure had been purged due to suspected heresy, the executioners completely unaware that those they were killing were, in fact, innocent.

Any hopes of a swift outside response had been shattered when the astropaths assigned to the planet twisted and changed into writhing masses of flesh and bone inside their tower. The last chance that Arthan had, that of the local Imperial Navy ships sending for help, was lost when the maddened sailors turned the mighty weapons of their vessels against each other and themselves, destroying the fleet in a series of explosions and detonated Warp drives.

The arrival of the loyalist lapdogs had been unexpected, but Azar had long since learned to plan for the unexpected. One did not survive long in the service to the Changer of the Ways otherwise. Swiftly retrieving what he had come for, he and his Rubric brothers had returned to their cruiser just as the Space Marines had bathed Arthan in fire. Ever since, Tzeentch's blessing had hidden him from the sight of the loyalists.

All that stood between him and further favor from Tzeentch was a lone battle-barge. The unseen smirk grew larger. Days of preparation had led him to this moment. Now was the time to teach these fools just what it meant to go against the powers of Chaos.

Casting his mind out of his body and into the depths of the Warp, he awoke the Neverborn that were bound to the hull of the _Knowledge_ and sent a psychic pulse to the daemons possessing the ship's weaponry. It was time to end this farce.

* * *

The first warning Nemros had was a shudder that rocked the _Shadow_ , causing him to stumble and sending a few of the crew flying out of their seats. Behind him, he could hear the battle-barge's shipmaster shouting orders to bring the ship into a combat state. In front of him, he could see the traitor ship emerging out of nowhere with its weaponry blazing, the first shots of which had bypassed the _Shadow_ 's void shields and impacted on the adamantium hull, leaving behind a daemonic flame that ate away at the blessed metal.

"Brothers," he snarled into the vox installed within his blessed helmet, "The traitor shows himself at last! In the name of the Emperor and the Primarch, our retribution will be swift!"

His vox roared in response, his brothers shouting oaths of vengeance and prayers to the Emperor as the _Shadow_ shuddered once more, this time as a spread of torpedoes launched from their tubes and sped towards the Chaos vessel while venerable plasma projectors fired spears of superheated gases that shot through the void to splash upon Chaos-touched void shields.

Beneath his helmet, Nemros smiled wickedly knowing that, sorcery or not, the Imperial citizens of Arthan Prime would soon be avenged.

Suddenly a massive Warp rift blossomed in front of the Chaos vessel, despite the traitor ship being nowhere near the system's Mandeville point. It was commonly considered impossible amongst Imperial Navigators to open a rift so close to a planet. Nemros was unsure as to why, the vagaries of the Warp were lost upon him, but he was certain that allowing the sorcerer to complete whatever ritual he had begun would have dire consequences for the Space Marines and crew of the _Shadow._

A volley of macro-cannon fire rocked the ship as he made to turn towards the _Shadow_ 's shipmaster and roar at the man to destroy the traitor vessel _now_ when something caught his enhanced eye. Before he could even blink, let alone process the sight, the energies of the Warp right shot outwards, engulfing both the heretic vessel and the _Shadow._

* * *

Before Azar rested the ancient device that he had recovered from the deepest and most heavily sealed vault within the depths of Arthan Prime's crust. Forbidden manuscripts recovered centuries earlier that had led him here had placed the time of its construction during some time in the Dark Age of Technology, hinting at what was possibly humanity's first attempt to master the shifting tides of the Warp.

Azar, however, was uninterested in whatever history this machine had. All of his focus and his psychic might was invested in the ritual that used the device as a catalyst to channel the energies of the Warp. His studies and dreams had shown him that upon successful completion, he would be instantaneously teleported to anywhere in the galaxy that he so desired, while the resulting backlash would consume all those near the Warp rift, casting them into the Warp for all eternity.

The sorcerer ignored the shudders of the _Unspeakable Knowledge_ as the mighty Neverborn he had bound to it took control of it to fight the loyalist battle-barge. He ignored the weapon fire that splashed against the void shields, confident that they would hold long enough for the ritual to be completed. All that he was, was focused upon the ritual, for even the tiniest lapse in attention would have catastrophic results.

So it was that he was caught off guard for a fraction of a second when the distant laughter of Tzeentch echoed through his mind at the same moment that the loyalist fire overwhelmed the void shields that the Neverborn had been neglecting in their eagerness to fight, allowing massive shells to smash into the ship's hull.

" _No!_ " he screamed in rage as the energies that had sustained the ritual were ripped from his control and blasted outwards in a nova of indescribable colors and madness made manifest.

As the _Unspeakable Knowledge_ was blasted into the Empyrean, all Azar could hear was the shrieking of the predators of the Sea of Souls, and the ever-changing laughter of his patron deity.


	2. The Emperor's Finest

_Chapter 1: The Emperor's Finest_

Brother-Sergeant Thram snarled as he brought his chainsword screaming down upon the head of a goat headed daemon, the roaring weapon chanting a song of victory as it tore through the abomination in a thick spray of hissing, viscous blood. He looked up from the rapidly-disappearing corpse in time to see the rest of his squad finishing off the other foul warpspawn with their bolters and blades and took the opportunity to breathe deeply.

Idly he wondered just how long it had been since the Geller fields had been raised and the hunt to purge the battle-barge of the daemons had begun. Time had no meaning in the Warp. One moment it felt like he had just begun to fight, his muscles fresh and ready for war. The next it felt like he had been fighting for ten thousand years, and that the slightest of movements would be the undoing of muscles that screamed in fatigue. The chronometer installed in his helmet was of no use either, fluctuating wildly every time he glanced at it.

Dismissing the pointless conjecture, he opened a channel to his squad with a thought. "Status report brothers," he rasped into the vox.

"Fine, brother," Brother Hrim said in response.

"Minor wound, but I am fine as well," the deep tones of Brother Joh reported.

"I too am fine, Brother-Sergeant, but Brother Barathon fights at the Emperor's side now," Brother Malthus said, his normally emotionless voice tinged with a hint of sorrow. Thram knew that Malthus and Barathon had fought alongside each other over the past century, and the bonds of brotherhood had been deep between them.

Thram lowered his head in respect for their lost Brother. "May his spirit forever watch over the chapter, and guard us with his courage until the Emperor returns to us once more," he intoned, speaking loudly and clearly the Litany of the Fallen, as tradition demanded he must.

"And when we fall, so too shall we," the others said, finishing the chant.

"Come Brothers. Though it pains me to do so, we must continue on to the bridge without Barathon. We shall return for him later," Thram said once the fallen was given his due.

"Then let us carve a swath through these foul creatures as we advance," Malthus declared as he slammed a new sickle cartridge into his bolter.

Any agreement to that statement was interrupted by the sounds of screams that pitched impossibly high one moment before shifting to impossible lows the next.

"It seems the Emperor is listening to your prayers Malthus," Hrim chuckled as he stroked the activation stud on his chainsword.

"Then let us praise His name in the only way we can brothers," Thram said as a knot of daemons came charging down the corridor towards them. The distinctive _crack-boom_ of bolters firing joined by the shrieking of chainswords echoed throughout the ship as battle was joined between the two groups.

* * *

Epistolary Vargus was weeping tears of blood as he unleashed his powers upon another long-tongued daemon before it could scythe one of his brothers in twain, ignoring the constant pounding on his skull as he did.

The Geller fields had not been raised fast enough, and now the _Duty's Shadow_ was teeming with the spawn of the Empyrean, who now rampaged throughout the ship killing whatever crossed their path. Most of the mortal crew had been already lost to their blades and claws; Vargus could see with his sixth sense the bright lights that marked their souls passing into the Warp, only to be torn apart by ravenous warpspawn eagerly waiting on the other side of the Geller fields to join their kin.

So it was that he found himself outside the chambers of the _Shadow_ 's Navigator with a squad of his fellow Marines. Should their only means of traversing the tides of the Warp be lost, he and all of his brothers would soon join those mortals in the claws of the Neverborn.

 ** _Give in…_**

Vargus gritted his teeth as he impaled a daemon that had leapt over one of his brothers in its haste to reach him on his force staff, before bringing the end of the staff down to the floor and stomping with all of his might upon the creature's head. The whispers had been a constant companion ever since the _Shadow_ was plunged into the Warp by the heretic's ritual, as they had been every time he had sailed through the Warp with his brothers.

 ** _You are marked for greater things, Vargus…_**

The daemonic assault doubled in ferocity, and the Marines stood firm in the face of the blasphemous tide. Vargus strained himself to his utmost limit, knowing that of all of the Iron Sentinels gathered outside the Navigator quarters, he and his powers were best suited for fighting the predators of the Empyrean. Blood flowed out of his ears like a river, while the tears of blood from his eyes were now a constant flood. Unless this ended quickly, he would soon end up overloading himself, frying his mind from constant use of psychic powers.

 ** _All you need to do…_**

He snarled in pain and desperation, unleashing one final blast that sent the daemons skittering back into the darkness of the bowels of the ship with its ferocity.

 ** _…_** ** _is accept…_**

 _Never!_ he roared mentally, even as his sight dimmed rapidly and the deck rushed up to greet him. _I will never be your plaything! In the Emperor's name, I shall fight you until and beyond my dying breath!_

He did not hear the worried shouts of his brothers or see them rushing to catch his collapsing frame. As the blackness claimed him, all he could hear was a deep chuckle.

 ** _That is what they all think…_**

* * *

Their exit from the Warp was just as sudden as their entry had been.

One moment Nemros had been poised to drive his power sword _Defiance_ into the broad chest of a daemon, and the next moment the ship had jerked wildly while the spawn of Chaos attempting to gain access to the bridge dematerialized as they lost their only foothold into the Materium. Turning from the carnage that marked his stand, he stomped his way back over to the viewport to see a lush and verdant world hanging in the void before him.

Turning back towards the _Shadow_ 's shipmaster, he made his way over to the command throne that dominated the room. "Speak to me Davriel, where in the Emperor's name are we?" he demanded, the adrenalin still coursing through his veins. He needed to know where the Warp had seen fit to deposit them.

Shipmaster Davriel Kemril, a mousy, aging man with a wiry frame and flecks of gray running through a head of hair that was once jet black turned away from the report he had been receiving from one of his officers to face Nemros. "We are still in the process of determining that Captain," the man said in a mechanical monotone. Davriel had suffered damage to his throat over a decade ago during an engagement with traitor forces and had to have his voice box replaced as a result. "It would appear, however," he continued, "that wherever we are, it is within no recognized Imperial system."

"Any sign of the traitor ship?"

"Negative, Captain. Just the planet."

Nemros turned to glare at the mentioned green orb that continued to float in the void in direct defiance of his best attempts to batter it into submission with the force of his gaze. Davriel's voice drew him back towards the command throne a moment later. "There are, however, signs of habitation. A number of what appears to be destroyed dry docks are in orbit of the planet, though they are woefully undersized."

"How undersized?" Nemros asked tersely. Habitation? Possibly a xeno homeworld?

"They could service the Imperial Navy's _Sword_ -class frigates with some difficulty, but anything larger than that would be impossible."

Nemros stared at the Shipmaster, sensing that the man was not quite done with his report.

Davriel seemed hesitant to continue, as if the next bit of information would displease the Space Marine captain. "Captain…" the man began. Nemros could hear the trepidation within the man's usually flat voice.

"Speak, Shipmaster," he said encouragingly. Or at least, as encouragingly as he could with his voice distorted into a grotesque parody of itself by his sneering helmet.

"The crew are still unsure, but the auspex scans seem to be indicating that the life on the planet below us is human."

Nemros stared, the glaring red slits that formed the eyepieces of his helmet slowly shifting from Davriel back to the lonely world. A non-Imperial human world? How? Was this a lost colony, settled during the first great human diaspora before the Dark Age of Technology, somehow surviving against all the odds to the present day? Or was this something else entirely? An enclave of renegades hiding from the wrath of the Imperium?

"There is one final detail Captain," came the Shipmaster's voice from behind him.

"What is it?" he said absently, his mind still focused on the myriad of possibilities that surrounded this new world.

"While we are still working on a translation matrix for the transmissions we are intercepting, there appears to be two separate factions on the surface which are in conflict with each other."

Curious. It appeared there was only one way to solve this riddle.

"Sergeant Thram," he spoke into his vox.

 _"_ _Captain?"_ Thram's voice came crackling back a moment later.

"I have new orders for you and your squad. Report to Brother Manswell in the armory, urban loadout."

 _"_ _Captain?"_ Thram repeated, confusion lacing his tone this time.

"Ready yourself for a drop brother," he said. "I will explain more when you and your squad are headed for the surface."

* * *

Richard Helermann was so tired. How long had been since the last time he had slept? Four days? Five? Cerberus was in no mood to give him and his fellow resistance fighters the courtesy of anything beyond the lightest of dozes these days.

Benning was a world under siege in a galaxy gone mad. After the destruction of the local Alliance fleet by those mechanical squid things, _Reapers_ he had heard others call them, Cerberus terrorists had descended upon their helpless world and had begun abducting people for God only knew what purposes. The Alliance was not coming, bogged down as they were with the Reapers that were rampaging throughout the galaxy, and the Council did not care for their plight. The people of Benning were truly on their own.

To his shame, Richard had been too frightened to resist, too scared to defy his oppressors in the beginning phases of the occupation. He had watched as his neighbors and friends had been hauled away, and yet he had done nothing. It had not been until Commander Shepard and the crew of the _Normandy_ had launched a daring raid upon the Cerberus garrison that he had been inspired to take up arms with the burgeoning resistance and dare to spit in the face of the enemy.

Now, he and a dozen others found themselves trapped within an abandoned subway tunnel with Cerberus troopers closing in on their location.

"Well," a dirty resistance soldier named Kevin said from next to him. In a previous life, the man had been an interior decorator. Now he was a hardened killer. Strange indeed, Richard mused, were the twists and turns life was prone to taking. "Let's hope Mikael was able to get those civilians out of the city."

"He did. I'm sure of it," rasped Sarai, a woman that had been a teacher before Cerberus came. "Now we just gotta teach these assholes what it means to think they can do with us as they please."

"Amen," Richard muttered hoarsely, his throat dry and aching beyond all belief.

There were no more words. Each resistance fighter had accepted this fate as an inevitability ever since the moment that they had taken up arms against the invaders. Now all that was left was to face their deaths with dignity.

As Richard moved over towards a broken section of the tunnel and stuck the barrel of his scavenged Mattock rifle out through the cracks at the encroaching Cerberus soldiers, he thought he caught the sight of a plume of fire descending from the heavens towards the planet. Shaking his head to clear what he figured to be a hallucination, he took aim and opened fire on the Cerberus troopers, catching one in the shoulder and sending the man spinning to the ground in a spurt of blood.

Ducking back behind cover he noticed the orb of fire still dangling in the sky, though much closer now. Squinting, he noticed it was drawing even closer by the second at an alarming rate, and the trajectory seemed to place its landing spot right on top of him. Could Cerberus have decided to simply launch an orbital bombardment on the world and grab whoever was left in the aftermath? If so, why would they still have troops planetside?

He was shaken out of his reverie by a near miss that showered him in broken stone. Cursing himself for his inattention, he turned and emptied the rest of his thermal clip into the Cerberus position. Whatever the bastards had decided to do, Richard was not going to go out quietly.

A shriek filled the air, drawing the attention of all the combatants upwards in time to see a cylindrical object skip off the side of a prefab, sending the sterile white building groaning into the streets below, before slamming into the surface with a massive impact, kicking up a cloud of dust and debris as it did. Dozens of pairs of eyes stared at the grey and black metal pod warily, unsure as to what they had just witnessed.

A hiss of hydraulics cut through the tense, still air as the sides of the cylinder unfolded, revealing a quartet of giants clad in armor that was painted the same color as the pod and marked by the occasional piece of paper held in place by what appeared to be wax. Squinting red slits winked evilly as they took in the sight that lay before them, while everyone held their breath, waiting to see what these newcomers that were currently pounding down the ramp that the side of their pod had created for them would do.

A harsh, barking command ripped through the air, laced with static and mechanically deepened beyond the point of sounding anything like a human, which Richard presumed these newcomers to be given the general shape of their bodies, could make. No one could understand them, and after a few moments the command was repeated, louder this time. Still no one dared to move.

Suddenly one of the Cerberus officers, Richard remembered that the Alliance coordinators had dubbed them 'centurions,' leapt to his feet and pointed at the newcomers. As one, the Cerberus troopers turned and opened fire on the giants, who stood exposed in the center of the street.

Richard thought that that was it for the newcomers. That they would be cut down in a hail of mass accelerator fire before they could even react to the sudden aggression on the part of Cerberus. So it came as no small surprise when the bulky armor of the giants shrugged off the small arms fire with almost contemptuous ease. He was further surprised when the giants reacted even before the initial volley had reached them, bringing fat-barreled guns to bear on the white-armored forms of the Cerberus troopers.

Thunderous blasts accompanied by flares of light erupting from the muzzles of the stocky guns that the newcomers bore, deafening him with the volume of the noise put out by the weapons. Turning back to look at the Cerberus soldiers, he saw them being blasted off their feet in great gouts of blood, the bullets of the newcomers blowing giant holes out of their armor and flesh and tearing entire limbs off of those unlucky enough to be hit in either the arm or the leg. One trooper was hit in the head, and faster than Richard could blink, the entirety of the man's head, neck, and most of his upper torso was gone.

Centurions signaled for a withdraw, launching smoke from their modified rifles in an attempt to spare themselves and their men from the brutal weaponry of the towering soldiers that were slaughtering them. However, the helmets that the giants wore must have included some sort of thermal imaging as the accuracy of the massive guns was unchanged by the billowing canisters of gray and white smoke.

Over the course of ten seconds, between the time that the first Cerberus shots had been fired and the last discharged bolt shell had tumbled to the ground after being ejected out the side of the weapons of the giants, the four newcomers had butchered almost thirty Cerberus soldiers with nothing more than a few scratches upon their hulking frames. Richard and the rest of the resistance fighters gaped openmouthed in awe and more than a little bit of fear at the spectacle that had played out before them.

That awe shifted solely to fear when the giants shifted their gaze to them, as if contemplating finishing them off as well, despite the fact that none of the resistance fighters had shot at them. Then, after a brief yet incredibly charged standoff between the two groups that had Richard believing that he had survived everything the war could throw at him so far only to meet his end at the hands of these mysterious soldiers, the giants turned and tromped off north, deeper into the heart of the city.

After they had disappeared from sight, Kevin turned to his comrades and asked, "That just happened for everyone else, right?"

Richard said nothing, still unsure whether he should thank God for these mighty new soldiers that heralded their salvation, or to crawl into the deepest hole he could find and never see the light of day again.

* * *

"Captain Nemros, group one has proven hostile and has been eliminated. Your orders regarding group two?" Thram said into his vox as he and his brothers glared at the group of civilians wielding those oddly shaped rifles of theirs. The previous group had used the same weapons and had been utterly powerless against the protection granted by his mighty suit of power armor. This group promised to fare even more poorly should Nemros give the word.

 _"_ _Negative, stand down Sergeant,"_ came the order after nearly a minute of him and his brothers marking targets. _"Proceed to rally point Alpha and plant the beacon. Auspex scans are showing more of group one headed in your direction."_

"Understood, proceeding to objective now," he confirmed before closing the vox channel and opening one to his squad. "Brothers, leave them for now. The chapter has need of our services elsewhere."

"They would make for poor foes anyways," Hrim said as they made their way out of the street and towards the blinking rune on their HUD that signified their destination. "Even the Whiteshields of the Guard are capable of putting up a more disciplined fight than they."

"You and your obsession with honorable combat," Joh intoned, his gravelly voice rumbling over the vox. "We are Space Marines. We do the Emperor's bidding no matter how honorable it may be."

"Enough Brothers, save your verbal spars for when we are not on the battlefield," Thram admonished the pair before an argument could break out between them. "Eyes open, the enemy could be anywhere in this maze of a city."

The sharp _crack-boom_ of a bolt being launched from Malthus' Stalker-pattern bolter, followed swiftly by the headless corpse of an enemy sniper tumbling out of a window and into the street in front of them, emphasized his point. Silence reigned as they made their way towards the landing pad that had been designated as rally point Alpha, only occasionally hindered by pockets of resistance, though the primitive nature of these humans weapons and armor ensured that any delay was minor at worst.

"Captain, I have Alpha within my sights," Thram reported, his chronometer informing him that it had only taken them thirty minutes Terra standard since leaving the drop pod to reach the street that overlooked the site that the Captain had ordered them to secure.

 _"_ _Excellent news Marine, squads Delta and Scipio are on their way via Thunderhawk now, and Brothers Klivak and Yonthul stand ready to teleport in should you require heavy assistance,"_ his Captain informed him.

"Sergeant," Malthus said, gesturing towards a nearby hab-block in which a larger group of enemies was gathering. His helmet immediately began adjusting his vision to better suit his needs, allowing him to see that even more foes were on the way.

"Captain, requesting heavy assistance. Renegades will attempt to overrun the landing zone before squads Delta and Scipio arrive," he voxed up to the _Shadow_ while gesturing towards his brothers to assume defensive positions. Kneeling down, he pulled the homer off of his back and muttered the Litany of Activation, watching as the device unfolded and began to pulse almost imperceptibly.

 _"_ _Understood Thram. Tactical support is inbound."_

He reached cover just as the first shots began to rain down around him.

* * *

Closing the vox channel to his brothers on the planet, Nemros opened a new one to the veteran Marines that stood ready to shed the blood of the foes of the Emperor, no matter what they were. "Brother Klivak, are you and Yonthul ready?"

 ** _"_** ** _Just give us the word Captain, and the heretics shall fall before us,"_** the monstrously deep voice on the other end reported.

"Most heartening Brother." A soft beep from the console near him signaled the activation of Thram's teleport homer. "You may proceed. Show them that none may stand before Space Marines."

 ** _"_** ** _Understood. Deploying now Brother,"_** the voice of Klivak, clad in Tactical Dreadnought Armour, said as he and Yonthul were whisked from the bowels of the ship to the surface of the planet instantaneously by the holy mechanisms within their blessed warplate.


	3. Fury and Zeal

_Chapter 2: Fury and Zeal_

Tactical Dreadnought Armour, better known to the citizens of the Imperium's many worlds as Terminator armor, had been developed ten thousand years ago during the Great Crusade, the suits originally intended to supplement those Marine forces fighting in conditions that were too cramped to allow for Dreadnoughts and armored support yet still had a need for units capable of absorbing more punishment than their armor was able to endure. However, when the galaxy burned at the hands of the Arch-Traitor and the hopes and dreams of humanity burned along with it, most of the information regarding the construction of these mighty suits was lost, a trend that had continued to this day. Veteran Brother Klivak doubted that his suit was one of those worn during those dark days, but that did not make him any less lethal on the field of battle, nor did it make him any less proud of the honor that he had been given by being deemed worthy of wearing this ancient suit of blessed ceramite to war against the many enemies of mankind.

He transitioned back to the Materium from the Warp, violently displacing the air that had occupied the same position as his armored form now did with the thunderous _crack_ that heralded a successful completion of teleportation. Another _crack_ followed his a second later, informing him of Yonthul's arrival. A quick glance showed him that they had materialized within the confines of a tiny, white hab-unit that was surrounded by other tiny, white hab-units, while the sound of shots and a ping of the auspex embedded in his armor told him that Brother Thram's squad was nearby.

"Teleportation complete, moving to engage," he voxed Captain Nemros as he impassively stared down upon the trio of renegades that stood before him. Most likely they were confused as to how the Terminators had managed to suddenly appear in their midst. Those few moments of bemused incredulity was all he needed to activate the power field that surrounded the pair of Lightning Claws that sprouted from the gauntlets of his armor, bathing the interior of the crude structure in a pale blue light.

Moving with a speed that belied the bulkiness of his armor, he was amongst them in seconds, his weapons shredding their armor and the flesh beneath as if they were made of paper. As their mutilated forms tumbled to the ground in pieces, he heard the sound of Yonthul's Thunder Hammer making short work of another renegade behind him.

"Come brother," he voxed to Yonthul while staring at a nearby hab-unit that was slowly disintegrating under the weight of the firepower brought to bear upon it by Sergeant Thram's squad before beginning to force his bulk out the narrow door of the unit. "The Emperor's work waits for no man."

"Auspex is showing a large group of renegades approaching the rally point," Yonthul reported as he squeezed out after him. "Two particularly large dots, most likely armored support. Should we request Thunderhawk support?"

"These debased wretches have not impressed me so far with their technology," Klivak said confidently. "We can destroy anything they dare to throw at us."

"Then let us advance brother. None shall block our path."

Without another word, the pair of Terminators set off. Block after block passed before they reached the column that had been marked on their visors by the technicians aboard the _Shadow_ that had also detected its approach. The two large dots had materialized into what appeared to be oversized exoskeletons, like mankind was rumored to have used prior to and during the early years of its original great expansion amongst the stars. Congregated about them were around two dozen soldiers, most of which were the kind that they had first encountered upon their arrival, while the majority of the remainder were of the type that Sergeant Thram had designated as the leaders. However, there were a few that there had been no mention of yet, lithe female forms that carried swords and wore faceless black masks with red slits.

Klivak grimaced underneath his helmet, both at the gross lapses in discipline that he observed amongst them as they meandered their way towards rally point Alpha and at the fact that Thram and his squad would be overrun by this group reinforcing the rest of their ilk should they arrive unmolested. "Brother," he said to Yonthul as he drew up beside him, "You shall smash into their backs whilst I teleport into their front. Leave none alive."

"And the exoskeletons?" his fellow Terminator asked, a faint note of battlelust creeping into his normally dry, toneless deadpan. Clearly the veteran Marine had come to the same conclusions about their foes as he had.

"Try to leave one for me," Klivak rumbled deeply, chuckling slightly as he vanished with a sudden and loud _crack,_ the sound of which roused the renegades from their complacent inattention and drew their eyes towards Yonthul…

…just as Klivak reappeared behind their now-exposed backs. The only ones who realized he was there at all were the pilots encased within the exoskeletons and those few soldiers wise enough to not leave their flank completely open.

 **"** **In the name of the Emperor and the Primarch, death to the enemies of man!"** Klivak thundered, mentally increasing the volume on his vox to deafening levels as he charged forward into the shocked and confused group that was even now breaking apart into incoherent groups before the first blow had even been struck. He gutted the first trooper to cross his path, a leader too slow to evade his rampaging charge, sending a fountain of blood gushing into the air. The body had yet to touch the ground completely when he impaled a soldier, destroying the majority of the man's internal organs before brushing him off with a disdainful flick of his Lightning Claws.

Yonthul had not been lax either, bellowing his own war cries as his Thunder Hammer caught one of the sword-wielding females. The sheer force of the blow pulverized the warrior-woman's armor and turned her bones to powder while the momentum from the Hammer's swing sent her limp form flying off into an alleyway. A trooper burst apart in a literal cloud of red as he was unlucky enough to be caught by the return swing.

Together the two of them reaped a grim harvest of bodies amongst those who would dare oppose the might of the chosen of the Emperor.

Out of the corner of his eye, between decapitating the last of the sword users and ripping open the chest cavity of one of the common soldiers with an upward swing of his Claws, Klivak saw one of the exoskeletons reach Yonthul, trampling two of its comrades in its eagerness to engage with the giant that was shredding its support group. Klivak sneered at such a display of conscious disdain that the pilot of the suit showed towards his allies before bringing his foot down upon the fallen form of a stunned enemy, pulverizing the man and turning him into nothing more than a red smear upon Klivak's boot.

He looked up in time to see the exoskeleton bringing a churning mechanical claw in a downwards arc towards Yonthul's head, the speed of the motion too great for mortal eyes to track.

But Klivak had long since transcended mortality in the name of service to the Emperor. He saw Yonthul neatly bring his Storm Shield upwards in one smooth motion, intercepting the intended crushing blow. Mechanical claw met adamantium shield in a thunderous noise, and the carefully-crafted gift that the priests of the Red Planet had bestowed upon the chapter over a millennia ago did not yield to the strike.

The hesitation on the part of the exoskeleton's pilot was warranted, Klivak thought in a fit of generosity. No doubt such an event had never happened before. But while the man pondered what he had just witnessed, Yonthul struck. The first blow shattered the arm that bore the claw, reducing it to a twisted ruin. The second blow struck the joint of the left leg, sending the machine stumbling before falling over backwards, helpless. The third and final blow slammed down upon the cockpit, annihilating both machine and pilot.

"Engine kill," his Brother snarled triumphantly over the vox.

Klivak had not been lax himself, despite watching his fellow Terminator display the might of the Imperium to its foes. By the time Yonthul had turned back to the remaining mortals, only half a dozen still drew breath, the rest laying lifeless upon the ground. The few that still lived ineffectually shot at either Klivak or Yonthul. Klivak ignored the patter of their gunfire as it bounced off his blessed form, instead eyeing the remaining exoskeleton that stood a ways off, having spent the majority of the fight moving into a position whether it could bring its weaponry to bear. It was the only thing that could conceivably harm either of the Terminators if its driver was skilled enough, while the soldiers on the other hand would likely have more success throwing grains of sand at him rather than using their current weaponry.

"It's yours Brother," Yonthul said as he moved to finish off the soldiers.

Without a word, Klivak launched himself at the machine while it leveled a massive arm cannon at his oncoming form. Blasts smashed against his chest and upon his shoulders while alarms blared in his helmet, alerts warning him about armor integrity in the impact sites. Where the small arms of its comrades had been a joke, this machine was a threat should it manage to continue its assault against him.

Reaching its bulky mass, Klivak lashed outwards, the power fields that surrounded his Claws weakening the matter that comprised the arm substantially before the adamantium fingers tore it to shreds. Intercepting the claw arm before the pilot could attempt a similar attack against him like the other pilot had done to Yonthul, he tore that one apart as well. The sheer ferocity of the strike tore the claw arm out from the socket that held it in place, twisting and spinning the machine to the ground, trapping the pilot inside the cockpit as the exoskeleton landed face first into the dirty and bloody street. One final strike from Klivak tore the suit's power supply to pieces, trapping the soul inside.

"You have an idea, Brother?" Yonthul said from behind him, having watched Klivak tear apart his foe.

"The Captain will no doubt wish to learn what he can about our foe. I'm sure the apothecaries can learn what he needs from this one," he said as he turned away from the sight and back towards his Brother. "Come, our duty here is done, and I am certain that Thram and the rest could use our assistance back at Alpha."

"Once more to war, then," Yonthul remarked as the two of them moved away from the carnage and towards the rapidly-escalating warzone that was beginning to engulf the city.

* * *

Nemros stared at the cogitator's holographic display as it projected a list of names at him. Each name tore at him. Each name a fallen brother, all either lost during the fighting on Arthan Prime or during their time in the Warp. Each name was one less brave warrior of the Emperor left to guard the borders of the Imperium of Man from a myriad of threats, threats that ranged from the multitude of xeno species that preyed upon mankind to the minions of the Great Enemy that sought to turn the galaxy into their eternal plaything.

Sergeant Relos, a veteran of three hundred campaigns and First Company candidate. Brother Tvan, once a member of the secretive Deathwatch, and upon his return, esteemed Battle-Brother of Nemros' Fifth Company and the chapter. Sergeant Herox, slain defending the apothecarium during the Company's sojourn in the Warp. Three names that stood out amongst dozens. Another seven under the care of the apothecaries. A company of ninety-two reduced to forty-six over the course of a week. Truly these were devastating losses for not just the Fifth Company alone, but the chapter as a whole.

But perhaps the most grievous casualty of them all was Epistolary Vargus. The Librarian had fallen into a coma that had been triggered by his Sus-an Membrane during his valiant defense of the _Shadow_ 's Navigator, and Nemros desperately needed his Brother's advice now.

An alert on his helmet's HUD alerted him to an incoming vox from his Brothers planetside. With a blink, he established the requested connection. "Speak Brother," he said, eyes never leaving the lists.

 _"_ _Landing point secured Captain, we are pushing to designated locations now. No casualties,"_ came the voice of Scipio squad's sergeant.

"Good, continue the assault. Drive the renegades from the city boundaries."

 _"_ _Understood Captain. Be advised Thunderhawk One is heading back to the_ Shadow _with a prisoner,"_ the sergeant said before cutting the link.

Had Nemros been mortal, he most likely would have sworn at that moment. The transmission had reminded him that he did not have enough Marines to bring this world into a stable state of compliance, even before the losses they had suffered. The Sixth Company had been with them previously, but they had been recalled to the chapter's fortress-monastery in order to replenish losses that they themselves had suffered fighting Eldar Corsairs, leaving the Fifth Company alone when they had discovered the desecration of Arthan Prime. He would have to act swiftly and decisively if he were to conquer this world for the Imperium.

Even here, far from the Imperium, they would do their duty, just as the Astartes had for the past ten thousand years.

"For the Emperor," he mumbled as he dismissed the lists and brought up a display of the planet below him. He had a campaign to plan.

* * *

Far away, in a station orbiting a slowly dying star, the Illusive Man stared at the feeds that were streamed directly from his forces on Benning to his personal office, absentmindedly running a finger around the rim of a glass of bourbon as he did.

To a man that had built his entire career and reputation upon the acquisition of knowledge in order to further the cause of mankind, the unknowns that were currently tearing through the forces that he had dispatched to garrison the planet and quell any potential rebellions were immensely frustrating. They wore armor that shrugged off the mightiest weapons his soldiers could bring to bear, they carried guns that tore his drone-warriors to shreds, and they did it all with a speed and efficiency that could only be described as inhuman.

Yet the shape of their armor and bodies clearly stated these people had to be human. So who were they? Where did they come from? How did they construct all of this wondrous technology? These questions and a thousand more buzzed through mind, a steady hum of mental activity that threatened to drive him mad should he spend too long pondering them. Thinking was already hard enough these days with the constant migraines.

So instead of thinking, he watched impassively as one of the giants flash fried a group of troopers with a massive cannon. The blindingly white flash produced by the weapon coupled with the orb of energy that issued forth suggested some form of plasma technology, something that had long been dismissed by Citadel scientists as exceedingly expensive and impractical. Likewise, another giant was wading through the combined fire from an entrenched squad as if the mass accelerator rounds were naught more than drops of rain. His mind struggled to accept what it was seeing. The suit appeared to be some sort of highly advanced power armor, a concept that mankind had only been able to dream of previously. Like the impossible plasma technology, power armor had been deemed too expensive, along with needing an entire fusion plant to power it, an obstacle that these newcomers had seemingly overcome.

He needed this technology. He needed these newcomers. Above all else, he needed every last thing that was currently playing before his false eyes. With both them and the Reapers, mankind's destiny amongst the stars would be secured for all eternity.

There was, of course, the small matter of his organization and these giants currently fighting each other, but the Illusive Man knew that individuals were, in general, rational and reasonable.

His face darkened momentarily as a thin scowl crossed his lips. In general, with one very notable exception to that rule. But aside from a few outliers, shrugging off the superstitions of the past to push further along the path of process was one of the fundamental characteristics of mankind. It was one of the many things that made humanity so great, and he had no doubt that, once his goals were explained, these new humans would assist him in propelling humanity further along the path to greatness.

His thumb caressed a button that was nestled in the arm of his chair while he thought, weighing and planning the steps he would need to take for this. The first step, fortunately, was simple enough. The thumb pressed downwards, sending a signal to a location further within the station. _"Yes sir?"_ came the voice of his secretary in reply.

"Send a message to Commander Krensen. Tell him that he is to evacuate Benning immediately, no matter the casualties he suffers."

 _"_ _Yes sir,"_ came the reply as the signal dissipated.

Sighing, he brought the glass of bourbon to his lips, the sound of ice gently clinking together the only sound in the room. Lawson would be furious about his decision. No doubt he would go on and on about how he relied upon the civilians from Benning to supplement the stock he had on Sanctuary, but the potential benefits from this move were just too high. Henry would simply have to make do with what he had for now. Other sources would present themselves in due time.

Patience and subtlety, as they always had would see him through to success once more in this endeavor.

Success meant progress beyond all current understanding. Failure meant the total annihilation of the human race.

And the Illusive Man never failed.

* * *

Captain Fred Harding's day seemed to be fluctuating perpetually between good and much worse.

Originally hailing from the Alliance's 62nd Marine Division that had been stationed on Arcturus, Harding had been visiting family on Benning when the Reapers had launched their devastating assault, turning the Arc to scrap and leaving him one of the few survivors of the unit by pure chance. After the arrival of Cerberus, he had taken up control of the burgeoning resistance forces on the planet, eager to do his part in fighting back. Up until today, he had thought things had been bad but still manageable. Yet as the day wore on things insisting on becoming stranger and stranger.

Their long-planned attempt to evacuate large groups of civilians out of the city and into the relative safety of the surrounding countryside had been a success, pulled off without a hitch. However, the operation and drawn in more and more Cerberus troops in an attempt to crack down on their efforts.

Until they arrived.

The reports were scattered, contradictory, confusing, and above all, seemingly unrealistic. The first report had come from a group led by one Richard Helermann, who had claimed that giants had fallen from the sky and slaughtered Cerberus by the dozens. Harding had written it off as hallucinations due to a lack of sleep, food, and drink. But as more and more reports filtered in one by one, he was starting to believe them himself.

Metal-clad giants wielding a myriad of bizarre weaponry that all had one theme in common, that theme being extreme lethalness, were fanning out into the various districts from a point near the center of the city, killing every single Cerberus-affiliated human and mechanized assets that they found. Scouts reported bodies torn to shreds or blown apart, and mechs half-melted where they stood.

But the latest report was perhaps the most unbelievable of them all. Cerberus was running. Every last one of them.

Even though the occupation had only lasted slightly longer than a month, it was rather hard to imagine a Benning without Cerberus. Harding had been fully expecting that this world would be his grave, his body left to rot after the resistance headquarters had inevitably been located. It was a fact that he, along with the other volunteer Alliance officers that had been infiltrated in after Commander Shepard's raid and all of the resistance fighters that made up the Arcturus First Division, had accepted as reality.

But now everything had changed within a few hours, and he suspected that that fact would soon come to apply to the rest of the galaxy within a few days.

Making his way towards the planet's only remaining intact QEC, he mentally began drawing up the report he would give to Admiral Hackett. The Alliance had to know what happened here on Benning.

* * *

Retreating.

Captain Nemros sneered as he received the news. These renegades had apparently been on this planet for over a month, inflicting their depredations upon the helpless populace, but the moment that the Emperor's Finest had arrived and taken the fight to them, they fled with their tails tucked between their legs.

"Understood Sergeant Thram, hold position and await further orders," he said before he cut the link.

He pondered the renegades' evacuation plan as it was uploaded in real time to his hololithic array by the _Shadow_ 's auspex array. The device itself was rare archeotech, gifted to the chapter by the Mechanicus as thanks hundreds of years ago for aid in a matter that Nemros had not been privy to. Dozens of boxy transports lifted off from the planet's surface, each one carrying a dozen renegades to an awaiting pair of tiny ships that orbited on the opposite side of the planet. Laughably small, these raiding ships had undoubtedly been built with an idea to increase stealth capabilities by possibly being able to pass themselves off as asteroids when their engines were powered down in mind.

He idly contemplated sending Thunderhawk Two after them, but he had no idea what sort of weaponry they possessed, and could not risk losing such a valuable asset to the Company so lightly. He could make a small-scale Warp jump and take them by surprise, but many of his surviving Marines were still on the surface on the planet and he did not want to risk another daemon incursion without them. That move could be potentially disastrous.

In the end, he simply decided to let them go. The _Shadow_ could track their movements and extrapolate their coordinates from that. He had hunted heretics before on less.

For now, however, he had a Company to help rebuild, a world to subdue, and above all, a prisoner to see to. And the Emperor's work waited for neither man nor Astartes.

Deactivating the array, he headed for the hangar bay that Thunderhawk One had just touched down in. This would hopefully prove to be an enlightening conversation.


	4. New Developments

_Chapter 3: New Developments_

Shepard groaned as he pushed himself up off of the oversized bed that dominated the lower landing in his cabin, resigned to yet another night with no sleep. It felt like forever since he had last been able to just close his eyes and simply sleep without visions and dreams constantly pounding away at his sanity.

Rubbing his eyes to rid himself of the blurriness that had marred his vision, he stood up into the dull gloom that pervaded his poorly-lit cabin. The Alliance had taken out most of the lights that Cerberus had installed up here during their six month-long retrofit, no doubt claiming the lights were needless and wasteful. Shepard himself secretly suspected that the engineers had simply done it to spite him. Either way however, the lighting accompanied his present mood perfectly.

The _Normandy_ currently orbited that nuclear-blasted wasteland known to the rest of the galaxy as Tuchanka. It had only been a few hours since he, Garrus, and James had managed to disarm a truly massive and ancient bomb that had been planted inside the planet's surface over a thousand years ago by the Turians at the end of the Krogan Rebellions. Cerberus had planned to detonate the bomb, fracturing the nascent alliance between the two species before it could even begin, and it had taken the sacrifice of the Turian Primarch's son, alongside most of his platoon, to prevent such an event from happening. Shepard grimaced at the fresh memory. Another good soldier lost to this damnable war.

How long would the universe expect him to keep fighting and surviving? He had survived the hell that had been the raid on his homeworld of Mindoir when he was just a kid, watching as everything that had seemed so consistent and unchanging up until then burn before his eyes as Batarians sacked the place of his birth. He had survived the Blitz, giving his all to ensure that there would not be another Mindoir on a different planet, no matter the cost. Hell, he had even died. One might have thought that would earn him some sort of reprieve. Instead all he had earned in exchange for his constant sacrificing was a body full of cybernetics and a head full of nightmares.

The terminal in the landing above his bed began to beep softly, indicating that someone wished to speak to him. Shaking his head and wondering if he would ever find the time to relax and enjoy a full night of sleep, he ascended the stairs that led to the desk that held the awaiting terminal that continued to beep insistently.

 _"_ _Commander, Admiral Hackett wishes to speak to you on the QEC,"_ came the voice of Samantha Traynor, the _Normandy_ 's comm specialist. _"He says it's incredibly urgent."_

"Thanks Traynor," he said as he digested that statement. Hackett always seemed to project a sense of serene calm about him, never hurried or bothered no matter how bad things turned out. If the Admiral thought this was urgent, then Shepard hated to guess at what had flustered the man so badly. "I'll be right down."

Terminating the link, he hastily threw on a shirt that had been discarded onto the floor an hour earlier, making his way into the elevator and pressing the button for deck two. Shepard scowled as the doors closed on him and the cabin shuddered, marking the beginning of the descent. Two versions and a retrofit, and the elevator still moved slower than an Elcor mired in a swamp made of molasses.

After what felt like an eternity in Hell, the elevator dinged cheerily, informing its lone occupant that it had reached its destination. Stepping out into the CIC, he brushed past a pair of crewmen as he made his way through the checkpoint that blared angrily at his deviation from programmed protocol. Neither of the guards dared to ask him to allow the machine to complete its scan, not after Shepard had loudly and painstakingly made it clear how the _Normandy_ was his ship and that he did not need to submit to a scan every time he needed to visit the War Room, which was frequent.

Entering the circular room that was dominated by a holographic representation of the Crucible project, he brushed past his old friend Urdnot Wrex, who simply murmured a hushed "Shepard," the massive Krogan completely focused on the updates that were flowing in from his homeworld. The room's other occupant, Primarch Adrien Victus, simply nodded his acknowledgement at Shepard's presence before returning to his work. Shepard, for his part, ignored the two of them, completely focused on reaching the QEC.

He sealed the doors behind him as he entered the room housing the device. If Hackett thought the information was urgent, then no one else needed to hear. Hopefully the news was not bad though. He had had enough death to last him the rest of his life.

Activating the machine created an incredibly accurate and incredibly blue likeness of the Admiral. Clearly the man had been staring at his own QEC, impatiently waiting for the second Shepard contacted him.

 _"_ _Shepard, sorry to do this to you so fast but I need you to leave Tuchanka immediately,"_ Hackett said before Shepard even had the chance to salute his superior.

"Admiral?" Shepard asked, confusion and disbelief warring in his tone. "The genophage cure is nearing completion, Mordin should have it ready within the next couple of days," he stammered out, trying to make sense of the Admiral's order.

 _"_ _This takes priority Shepard. Even above the genophage."_

"What is it then?" If it was even more important than curing the genophage and cashing in on all the benefits that the cure would bring to the desperate alliance of races, then this new development had to be huge indeed.

 _"_ _You remember your mission to Benning? Cerberus' occupation?"_ Hackett said impatiently, as if afraid that any delay could ruin his orders.

"Yes sir, evacuating civilians. What about it? Did you find out what Cerberus was doing with them?"

 _"_ _Negative Shepard. We've just received word from the officers we managed to insert in the aftermath of your raid. The planet has been liberated. And not by us."_

"Then by who?" Possibilities spun through Shepard's mind at a dizzying rate, each one more outlandish than the last.

 _"_ _That's the kicker. We have no idea. We don't even know what species they are, though we have some strong suspicions. That's why I need you there, before we lose track of them altogether."_

That statement shut Shepard up like nothing else could. An unknown species? Suddenly the possibilities that he had been pondering a moment ago shattered into a thousand fragments, before being replaced by a million more possibilities. "You're sure?" he managed to croak out, his voice high-pitched in surprise.

 _"_ _Positive. And they've got technology that makes us look like children hitting each other with sticks too."_

Shepard was sure his brain had shut down at this point, subconsciously deciding to ride out the rest of this galaxy-shattering conversation with an attitude of dull amazement and acceptance. "Let me guess," he began, "you want me to bring them onto our side."

 _"_ _Absolutely Shepard. The images and feeds coming in from Benning are unlike anything we've ever seen before. Cerberus never stood a chance against them. Do whatever it takes, promise them anything you have to, just get them on the ground next to our men."_

The Commander felt his arm rising on its own while his mind began processing the enormity of his new task. "Consider it done," he said in an attempt to reassure both himself and the Admiral.

 _"_ _Good to hear Shepard. Hackett out."_ With that the blue light filling the room disappeared, leaving Shepard in the darkness. He took a moment to appreciate the symbolism before contacting the _Normandy_ 's resident wiseass and helmsman. "Joker, set a course for Benning. Get us there as fast as you can and then some."

 _"_ _Getting tired of the weather here?"_ came the voice of Joker over the intercom.

"Getting tired of losing this war," he returned before turning to exit the QEC room.

Pushing the thought of these strange new beings out of his mind for now, the only thing that remained was the question of how he would break it to Wrex that they were leaving his people to their fate for the time being.

"And EDI, tell Doctor Chakwas to standby, just in case." He had a feeling that this may hurt a lot.

 _"_ _Yes Shepard."_

* * *

Apothecary Slenarr stared at the tech-ridden body that lay stretched out before him in the Apothecarium. The heretically-augmented man had so far resisted his most basic attempts to extract information from him. Idly, he mentally ticked off the benefits that the renegade's implants conferred upon him. Increased resistance to pain, a slightly faster healing rate, and a reinforced bone structure, all of which brought to mind the genetic enhancements that the Guard performed upon their veteran Stormtroopers.

All at the cost of being reduced to slightly more aware than a servitor. A soldier capable of following orders but unable to formulate plans of his own. Obedience at the expense of creativity and flexibility. It disgusted the Apothecary to see the depths that mankind would sink to when not exposed to the enlightenment that the Imperium of Man gave freely. Why the Captain thought this man would be a source of information was beyond him.

"I ask again, renegade," he said with a voice lined with barely-constrained impatience, "why were you and your compatriots on this planet?"

The translation matrix that had been created by the _Duty's Shadow's_ technical officers and finalized by Techmarine Manswell crackled in his helmet as the prisoner gasped and strained against his bonds. No doubt he sought to free himself so that he could commit suicide in an attempt to deny his captors any information. Unfortunately for him, however, Slenarr had already removed both of the poison capsules embedded within his molars by forcefully removing the molars themselves. His scans had also picked up on the presence of what appeared to be miniature grenades embedded within the man's eyes, so he had forcefully removed them as well, leaving a shell of a human being splayed out in front of him. Red blood oozed sluggishly from empty eye sockets, and the enhanced sight of the Apothecary meant that he could see the faintest hints of bright blue mixed in with the dark crimson.

"Speak," he hissed as his annoyance increased with each futile gesture. "Or I shall make you speak myself."

"We…" the man grunted out. "Civilians. Capture them."

"I already know this," Slenarr grumbled as he lifted a large injector from a nearby tray that was filled with a dull gray liquid. "One last chance. Why were you and this…Cerberus… on the planet? What was the purpose of capturing civilians, as you so eloquently described it?"

When he was met with only silence in response, he carefully but forcefully exposed the man's neck before ramming the injector into the flesh and introduced a drop of the liquid into the renegade's bloodstream before removing the device. The effects were near instantaneous.

The husk of a man jerked and shrieked as his veins suddenly felt as if they were being melted by the gray liquid. Truth serums rushed from the injection sight and into the man's brain, rewriting neural pathways to make him much more amenable to the Apothecary's questions. Slenarr stared at the sight impassively, arms crossed, remaining silent until the prisoner stopped twitching.

"Speak, or I shall repeat myself," was all he said.

"Don't know," the man gasped, trying to force air into lungs hoarse from screaming. "Told…they were to benefit mankind."

It was all Slenarr could do to restrain himself from breaking the renegade's neck in frustration right then and there. Of course he would not have been told anything important. After this was over, he would have words with Brothers Klivak and Yonthul about their woefully inadequate abilities when it came to obtaining worthwhile sources of information.

"Who did the world belong to?" he asked, attempting a different line of questions. At the sight of defiance beginning to spread across the man's face, he wordlessly and minutely prodded the man's neck once more with the injector that hung in his hand, a promise of further agonies should he continue that trail of thoughts. Any resistance that might have sprung anew was quickly and brutally crushed by that one tiny hand gesture.

Broken, the renegade managed to stutter out, "Systems Alliance, government of humanity. Many worlds, spread out," before lapsing into unconsciousness.

Curious. A lost pocket empire of humanity? Perhaps this world was merely an outlier, with the main worlds in a nearby system. Something to report to the Captain, at the very least.

A minute passed by as Slenarr stared at the limp form that had wasted so much of his valuable time, judging whether or not he should question him further at a later date or to simply kill him now. While he doubted that the renegade had anything useful left to tell him, he would be lax in his duties if he were to not make the effort to wring every last scrap of information from him.

Another minute passed before Slenarr headed out into the main wing of the Apothecarium, leaving the soldier quiet and alone. Brother Vendrak's bionics needed to be constantly monitored to ensure no rejection occurred. He would return later, after letting the Captain know about his initial findings.

* * *

It had begun nearly a full half an hour before.

One of the remaining officers of the planet's defense forces had approached the leader of Beta squad, requesting to meet with the Marine's superior officer. Brother Tenthul had then proceeded to vox Nemros aboard the _Duty's Shadow,_ which had caused the Captain to board Thunderhawk One and head to the surface to meet with the man.

That was how Nemros had found himself rapidly approaching a situation that he considered himself uniquely unsuited for: diplomacy.

While the Space Marine Legions of old had often brought worlds into the Imperium's embrace with bolter and chainsword, they had also encountered many civilizations lost during the Long Night that had peacefully and willingly reunited with mankind as a whole. Before being reunited with their Primarchs, the masters of each Legion had hordes of diplomats and bureaucrats attached to their fleets to expedite the integration of each world within the burgeoning Imperium. However, with the end of the Great Crusade and the breaking of the Legions as per the Codex Astartes, the civilian functionaries no longer accompanied the Marines, who in turn devoted themselves to the defense of the Imperium rather than its expansion.

Nemros considered himself a finely crafted weapon, a tool in the Emperor's arsenal against a galaxy that would see humanity destroyed beneath its uncaring weight. But weapons made for poor peacemakers.

Shifting uneasily as he waited for the Thunderhawk to finish its landing sequence, and to his shame, the Space Marine Captain briefly entertained the notion of simply recalling all of the Marines stationed on the planet and leaving the inhabitants to their fate. Surely the Emperor had need of them elsewhere? They could simply file a report to the Administratum upon their return to Imperial space, detailing the discovery and location of a non-Imperial human power, and that would be the end of that.

But no, he was a Space Marine. He and his Brothers had been created to defend humanity to their dying breath. To leave otherwise would have been the blackest of betrayals of the chapter's honor and to spit on what it meant to be one of the Adeptus Astartes. He buried the treacherous thought beneath the weight of duty, leaving it to die a slow death while he focused on the task in front of him.

Beneath his feet, Thunderhawk One jolted as its landing gear made contact with the planet's surface, hydraulics straining as the aircraft's ramp lowered to allow him a means of exit from the adamantium cage that he was entrapped inside. Pounding down the ramp into the miniature dust storm that had been kicked up by his arrival, he nodded to the black and gray figures that he knew to be Brother-Sergeant Thram and his squad as they approached him.

"Captain, it's good you have arrived," Thram's face was hidden behind his helmet, but his voice revealed just how relieved he was to be able to pass this situation on to someone with more authority than he. "The local officer has been very insistent that he might meet with you sooner rather than later. Vocally insistent."

Nemros chuckled at the plight of his Brother despite the fact that he himself felt the same. "I'm afraid that you'll have to put up with him for a while longer. I wish for you and your squad to accompany me to these negotiations."

Thram, to his credit, simply nodded at the unpleasant order, accepting his role in the Emperor's designs. Nemros had considered bringing the two Terminators instead, but had decided that such a decision may prove to be detrimental to his cause. Such a show of force could provoke the locals instead of intimidating them.

"Come, let us go and do the Emperor's will," he said as he set off towards the large building within which the negotiations would take place, Thram and his squad trailing behind him in formation.

* * *

 ** _Why do you resist Vargus?_**

Within the confines of his mind, Epistolary Vargus twisted and writhed, trapped within his mental planescape. He had to escape. He had to warn the Captain. The company's journey through the Warp had tossed them into a strange place and an even stranger time.

 ** _An unsuspecting galaxy, ripe for the taking. With my aid, you could become the lord of a realm that spans countless worlds._**

The Voice had been his only companion ever since the battle outside the Navigator quarters, an echo of a people betrayed by one that they had trusted entirely, long before mankind had ever begun to start thinking of grasping for the stars. Their dying screams had produced a reverberation throughout the Warp that still lingered to this day. A reverberation that lurked within the darkest recesses of his mind.

 ** _They were weak, but I was made strong through their sacrifice._**

Before, the constant pounding of Neverborn against his psychic defenses had been a tiring yet predictable pattern, but now the whispers slowly ate at his psyche, eroding it tiny piece by tiny piece. It promised him power and life unending, but he clung to his duty, the only thing capable of helping him resist the temptations.

 ** _Power that even that screaming corpse could only have dreamed at. Worlds would live and die according to your whims. Entire species would bend at the knee unquestioningly with naught but a thought._**

Suddenly, he could feel the heavy fog that had settled over his thoughts begin to lift as consciousness began to return to him.

 ** _You and I are bound together now. Think about what I can offer you._**

Opening his eyes, his vision was filled with the white power armor that denoted one of the _Duty's Shadow_ 's apothecaries. Reaching out with a feeble and shaking hand, he grasped the Marine's torso armor as hard as he could, though his strength but was a laughable remnant of what it had been.

"Where is the Captain?" he rasped out in a voice cracked by dryness and disuse.

"You are not leaving the Apothecarium," the Apothecary said, obviously nonplussed by Vargus' abrupt return to reality and sudden demand.

"It is important," Vargus gasped, forcing out the words with a tongue swollen by dehydration.

The Apothecary was silent for a minute, no doubt contacting the Captain regarding his stubborn patient's intractable demands. "You are in luck," the Marine healer announced after a minute of silent discussion. "The Captain is on his way back from the planet now. He will see you upon his return."

"Thank you, Brother," said Vargus as he began to work his way up off the metal slab that he had awoken upon, only to be forcefully shoved back down.

"You are not leaving in your state," the Apothecary said, steel in his tone as he glared at Vargus through his helmet. "Attempt to do so again, and I will begin removing limbs until you are no longer capable of trying. You must heal, Brother. You were in a dire state when your Brothers dragged you in here."

"Very well," the Epistolary grumbled as he settled back onto the slab. Though his warning was urgent, he had no desire to push his luck. The Apothecaries of the Fifth Company were notorious for their ways of ensuring that those under their care fully healed before heading back to war.

"Nemros, if you never took my advice before, then I pray you take it now," he mumbled after the Apothecary had walked over to another injured Marine. The circumstances were far too dire to allow for anything else.

* * *

Brother-Sergeant Thram eyed his Captain warily as he sat down across from Nemros inside the Thunderhawk. He could not remember the last time that his superior had been in such a foul mood. Though his countenance projected a façade of serene calm, Thram could feel the annoyance and frustration bubbling just below the surface, threatening to erupt at any moment. Only centuries worth of iron discipline and will kept the swirling emotions in check.

The negotiations had been a farce. In reality, it had been more of an interrogation than anything, with the local officers demanding to know who they were and how they had arrived on their planet. Nemros had said little, only giving vague and noncommittal answers in lieu of actual responses. No doubt the Captain had spent the entire hour weighing whether or not this other group of humans would be joining the last one in watering the earth with their blood.

Tensions had reached their peak when one officer had had the gall to demand that the Marines hand over their weapons for study by what passed for techpriests. Even his comrades had been appalled by such a suggestion, while Thram had been ready to grant the man the opportunity to study a bolt shell in great detail. A Marine's boltgun was not a tool to be used and discarded. It was the instrument through which the Emperor's finest dispensed their wrath upon the enemies of mankind, and in doing so, shielded innumerable innocents from the horrors that stalked the galaxy. To so much as suggest that he give up his to a group of primitive strangers and never see it again was practically heresy.

Thankfully the locals had backed down after that, seemingly remembering just what the Marine weapons had done to the occupying force and having no desire to have such devastation inflicted upon them. Another officer had joined them, announcing that a higher ranking officer was on his way to the planet to continue the negotiations, while Nemros had received a transmission that had necessitated his return to the _Shadow._ Both sides had departed thoroughly unhappy with the other.

"Thram," came Nemros' voice over the roar of the Thunderhawk's powerful engines as it took flight.

"Yes Brother?"

"Your thoughts on how I should proceed from here?"

Thram paused momentarily. Nemros soliciting advice from his squad leaders was not unheard of, though uncommon in frequency. "Either proceed with extreme caution, or kill them all and let the Emperor sort out their souls. So far I have not been impressed with them."

Nemros took his recommendations in a stride, letting out a tired chuckle as he settled back against the hull of the Thunderhawk. "Neither am I, thought I get the feeling that they are more than a little desperate at the moment. In hindsight, I suppose I should not have been too surprised by some of their more outrageous demands."

"Desperate, Brother?"

"One of their worlds was lost. This so-called Systems Alliance is most likely very disinterested in losing any more to the Cerberus group. Given how easily we destroyed the renegades…" Nemros trailed off, letting Thram draw his own conclusion.

"Fine," Thram grunted after a moment. "But I sincerely hope you do not expect me to comply with their demands."

"I don't. I have no intentions of handing over _Defiance_ myself."

"Good. One of them mentioned something else entirely. _Reapers_ I believe the term was. What did you make of that Captain?"

"It could have been a slip, or merely a word our matrix was unable to translate. Either way, I would not worry overmuch about it."

"As you say."

"Know no fear, Brother. This will be resolved shortly, and then we will be able to return to the Imperium and the chapter."

Thram simply grunted again. Deep down, he felt that the Captain's words would prove false over the next few days, one way or another.


	5. A Coalition Most Tenuous

_Chapter 4: A Coalition Most Tenuous_

"You are sure?" Nemros asked in disbelief, his mind still trying to process the information that it had received.

Vargus shifted uneasily beneath his fixed gaze. "It is a situation most unbelievable, indeed. Yet I am certain that what I said to you is the reality that we are now faced with."

Nemros stood stock still, mentally reeling. A different reality? Such a thing should not have even been theoretically possible, yet Vargus had spent the last hour describing to him all the things that simply did not add up.

"You cannot sense the Astronomican? At all?"

"No Brother, neither can the _Shadow_ 's Navigator," Vargus grunted, no doubt greatly disturbed by such an event. The Astronomican was the Emperor's light in the Warp, allowing the might of the Imperium's battlefleets to sail to distant worlds in defense of mankind. Were the Astronomican to ever cease shining, then mankind would be unable to defend itself, torn to shreds by both the multitude of xenos races and the deprivations of the predators of the Warp. It would also mean that the Emperor had finally died, the Golden Throne having failed at last, as the Astronomican was tied inextricably to the Master of Mankind. "The daemons that haunt my every move are conspicuously absent as well. They do not hurl themselves against my defenses in the hopes of finding a crack in my mental armor."

The Captain of the Fifth Company was perturbed, to say the least. He had heard the stories of course. Tales of Guardsmen deployed to distant sectors to halt the ravages of an enemy of the Imperium only to arrive a thousand years too late, their journey affected by the whimsical eddies of the Warp. But this? "So what do you think we should do then?" He kept his voice low as he asked. Should his Brothers find out about their situation before he could decide upon what course they should pursue, there would be chaos. Disorder and confusion would run rampant, before they inevitably fractured. They would not become renegades, each of them pursing their own selfish goals. Not while he still drew breath. "There is no Imperium of Man. No Immortal Emperor. Our oaths upon which we base all of our decisions are all now meaningless. Would you have us turn our backs upon all that it means to be Astartes?"

"No Brother, I would not," Vargus said calmly, clearly having had such thoughts himself. "Even here there is still humanity. A humanity that has a clear need for the Emperor's most powerful tools if it is to survive. We would be remiss if we were to abandon them simply because they are not the Emperor's subjects."

"Very noble Brother. Yet, they are indeed not the Emperor's subjects," Nemros said agitatedly, his voice beginning to grow in volume and he began unconsciously pacing as he continued to speak. "They have not even so much as heard of Him. What then should I tell our Brothers? That we are forsaking the mankind we know of to protect these…strangers? That we are damned no matter what we do?"

Silence reigned in the Apothecarium, broken only by the passage of the occasional Apothecary passing through on the way to his duties and the hum of the various machines that lined the walls as the two Astartes contemplated a reality in which they were no longer truly needed.

"I think, Brother, that that is exactly what you should tell them," Vargus said after several minutes had passed.

Nemros said nothing, looking at the Epistolary as he waited for an explanation of the Librarian's rationale.

"I have not the slightest of ideas as to how we would even begin to return to our galaxy, nor if it can even be done at all. However, a sense of purpose would keep the Company from splintering while we search. And what higher cause can there be than the preservation of humanity?"

"None at all Brother," Nemros replied automatically.

"Indeed. I fear, Brother that no matter what choice you make today, the Fifth Company of the Iron Sentinels will be no more. Not, at least, as we knew it. But where there is still hope, where there is still humanity, we will fight, as we have always done."

Silence ruled after Vargus finished speaking, both of the Marines tense and anxious, yet understanding that such a radical situation required drastic measures in order to adapt to it. Such was the thinking that the Iron Sentinels had followed ever since their Founding.

"I will think on your advice Vargus, amongst many other things," Nemros said after a while. "I would also appreciate it if you were beside me when we meet with this representative of the Systems Alliance."

"If I can manage to sneak past the Apothecaries, then you can trust me to be there," Vargus smiled weakly.

Nemros allowed himself a tiny smirk at the answer before turning to leave the Apothecarium. He needed more advice before he could allow himself to commit to a course of action. Any hesitation on his part would result in him faltering, even if for just a second. In a galaxy that challenged his very existence, to falter would mean death for the entire Fifth Company.

But he was an Astartes. Astartes did not falter. No matter the cost, they prevailed.

"Brother Manswell," he voxed as he made his way into the bowels of the _Shadow_. "I have need of advice. Awaken the Ancient."

* * *

Half-blind eyes opened wearily, eyelids unfastening from each other for the first time in over…

He paused mentally as he realized that he had no idea. How long had it been? How long since the Chapter had last needed his services as a warrior and a leader?

 **CONNECTING SARCOPHAGUS TO DREADNOUGHT FRAME…**

Runes momentarily flashed in green before him, a jumble of words and binary that only a Techmarine would be capable of understanding. Even after centuries of internment, he still did not understand what they meant. Only the blocky words that followed and dominated his autosenses were anything close to normal Gothic to him.

 **SARCOPHAGUS CONNECTED. RUNNING DIAGNOSTICS…**

 **ALL SYSTEMS AT NOMINAL CAPACITY. ATTACHING LEFT ARM…**

Ancient mechanisms hummed and whirred as they descended from the room's vast ceiling, carrying an arm that ended in a power fist graced with an underslung heavy flamer. Metal groaned and sparks flew as the machine attached the limb to its frame.

 **LEFT ARM ATTACHED. ATTACHING RIGHT ARM…**

The Marine, more metal and bone than flesh now, watched impassively through the autosenses that had long since replaced his eyes as the process was repeated once more, this time attaching a twin-linked lascannon to his right arm socket.

 **RIGHT ARM ATTACHED. RUNNING DIAGNOSTICS…**

 **ERROR. ELECTRO-FIBRE BUNDLES IN LEFT ARM 3% INSENSITIVE. CORRECTING…**

 **ERROR CORRECTED. INITIALIZING POWER FLOW TO DREADNOUGHT FRAME…**

His mechanical "heart" pulsed, pushing power out from its venerable thermic reactor and into his limbs, restoring a shadow of the sensations his battered and rotted body once felt as it did. The Chapter had called for him, and he had returned from death to serve once more.

 **POWER FLOW AT OPTIMAL LEVELS. DREADNOUGHT FRAME READY FOR WAR. PRAISE BE UNTO THE OMNISSIAH.**

"Brother, it is good to see you walk amongst us once more," a voice sounded to his right. His chassis _whirred_ as he swiveled slightly to look at the source of the familiar voice. Where had he heard that voice before? Where had he seen this face before? The memories of the last time he had been awake were so fuzzy and pale…

"Do you not recognize your better?" the source of the voice jested, though he could detect a slight undertone of worry coursing beneath the verbal jab.

 **"** **Nemros,"** the Dreadnought boomed as a name floated to the forefront of his memories. **"I see you have not yet completely ruined my Company with your hapless leadership."**

Whatever good humor that had settled onto his friend's helmetless face disappeared at those words. "That is what I have asked that you be awoken for Arathen. The Company stands at an unprecedented crossroads, and I am most troubled."

 **"** **Then speak Brother, and I shall listen."**

So Nemros spoke of what the Fifth Company had done, how it had survived a harrowing journey through the Warp only to land in a strange new reality. How its fate balanced upon the narrowest of edges, and how a choice the displeased even one Brother could lead to its fragmentation. Arathen listened to it all silently, saying nothing until Nemros had finished his explanation.

 **"** **This is dire news indeed Brother, yet I find myself agreeing with the advice given to you by the Epistolary. If this is the end of the Fifth Company as we once knew it, then let it be an end that the Emperor Himself would be proud of."**

Arathen watched as a myriad of emotions played themselves out upon Nemros' face, the man's normally stoic expression shattered by the weight of responsibility that had been thrust upon him so suddenly. The Ancient could sympathize, although he was unable to truly empathize. He had made many choices that had haunted him for decades after the fact, nagging doubts that had rode on his conscience, yet never once had he had to confront something like this.

Finally, one emotion won out above the rest. Resolve steeled Nemros' gaze as he looked up at Arathen's viewport. "Then I will choose the only option that I suppose I have ever been able to choose since this situation presented itself. Will you stand by my side when I meet with the representative of this mankind?"

For all that he was unable to do for his successor, Arathen could do this. **"Yes."**

* * *

Shepard paced the cockpit of the _Normandy_ with an odd mixture of eager anticipation and trepidation. In less than five minutes, they would exit FTL around Benning and he would once more become involved in an event that would shatter the way the inhabitants of the galaxy understood reality.

After so many other similar events, he would be lying to himself if he did not secretly envy the man who worked a steady job and lived a boring family life. He had experienced enough galaxy-shaking revelations to last him multiple lifetimes by this point. He had also grown more than a little tired of being constantly hailed as the "galaxy's last hope" after so many years of being ignored, downplayed, and ostracized.

His anxiety had not been helped by Admiral Hackett contacting him an hour before the _Normandy_ had made its jump to Benning, informing him that the officers conducting the pre-negotiation feelers with the newcomers had made a complete hash of themselves, leaving Shepard as the Alliance's last chance at bringing these strangers into the fight against the Reapers. Shepard could not even be bothered to try being surprised by that information.

"Shepard," came the gravelly tones of Wrex from behind him. The massive alien had at first been infuriated by Shepard's decision to leave Tuchanka for this, but after Shepard had shown him the feeds depicting the newcomers to him, the Krogan had calmed down considerably. All he had said was, "Make sure to get me some of those weapons, and we'll be even," before turning back to whatever he had been engrossed in prior to the confrontation.

"Yeah Wrex?" he asked without looking back. The massive alien had clearly taken an interest in these outsiders beyond his initial diffidence, demanding that Shepard bring him along on the negotiations. Wrex had justified it as needing to appear as if he were capable of acting as a leader to a united Krogan race, but Shepard knew that Wrex was just as curious as the rest of them.

"You're making my plates itch with your pacing," the lump of scales and redundant organs said, encased within his trademark blood red armor. "Stop it."

Cursing internally, Shepard brought his wayward feet under control. It was a nervous habit, and a painfully transparent one at that.

"Yeah," agreed a dual-toned voice, "can't have the Savior of the Galaxy scaring off the crazy-strong aliens now can we?"

"Agreeing with Krogan now are we Garrus?" he said as he turned to see his Turian friend and Liara walking down the pathway that led from the _Normandy_ 's CIC to the cockpit, trailed closely behind by James. "Truly you've fallen far. Besides, if anything scares them off it'll be that scar collection of yours."

Garrus merely chuckled in response, "You're just jealous is all."

"Not all women like scars Garrus," Liara intoned, smiling slightly at the exaggeratedly depressed look the Turian immediately adopted.

"Liara, any luck with your information net?" Shepard asked, thankful for his friends and their bantering. The enormity of his upcoming task seemed somewhat less so with them by his side.

"Absolutely nothing. It's like they didn't even exist before a few days ago," the Asari said, sounding immensely frustrated. Liara had an insatiable desire to know all that she could, and to consistently be proven inadequate even with her almost-unlimited resources had to be incredibly irritating.

"Then I guess we'll have to play this by the ear then. Hackett's given me complete freedom to act as I see fit with this."

"And if this all goes to hell?" James piped up.

Shepard merely shrugged in response, having no idea of his own. Rationally he knew that based on the recordings he had studied, they would not have a chance of escaping should the newcomers prove hostile. So he settled upon simply responding with, "If that happens, we'll have to get a little creative."

"Excellent evasion boss," Joker commented from his place in the pilot's chair.

"I try," the Commander shrugged as he turned back towards the viewport.

"Funny, you never let me use that answer."

"Perks of being in charge. Time until exit from FTL?"

"Just about to drop out right now."

The _Normandy_ slid out of FTL with all the smooth grace that would be expected from a ship of her classification, only the slightest of bumps marring an otherwise unnoticeable transition. Only the vastness of space greeted them, with the verdant orb of Benning hanging in the void before them.

"EDI, any sign of their ship?" Shepard asked.

"Yes Shepard, sending the coordinates to Jeff now," the robotic voice of EDI came from her position in the copilot's chair, voice oddly…hesitant? "Shepard, I am running scans on their ship now."

"What've you got?" he asked, curious as to what type of ship these newcomers had if it had even EDI worked up.

"Initial scans are reporting their ship to be over seven kilometers in length Shepard."

There was a long moment of silence as all present absorbed the implications of that sentence at their own pace.

"EDI…seven kilometers? Are you sure?" Joker asked slowly, disbelievingly. "Maybe you should run the scans again, maybe there's some anomaly messing with your sensors."

"I do not make mistakes Jeff," EDI said, sounding miffed at the thought that her body was anything but perfect. "I have concrete scans now. Their ship is just under seven and a half kilometers long."

Wrex let out a single, unimpressed-sounding huff. But even he looked somewhat eager at the news.

"The ship is coming into visual range now," EDI said while the organics began to press into the cockpit to catch a glimpse of this super ship.

Shepard inhaled sharply at the sight of the newcomers' ship. It was unlike anything he had seen before. A huge, bulky rear section towered above the forward section, which tapered off in a long, narrow neck that terminated in what appeared to be a blocky, menacing cannon. The ship itself was painted a mixture of blacks and grays, with the artistic image of a looming tower painted on the sides of the rear section.

"Not impressed," Joker said after a few seconds of silence.

Shepard tore his gaze away from the impossible sight before him to stare in disbelief at the pilot. "What?" he asked.

"Sure it looks like someone took a cathedral and strapped a whole bunch of engines and guns to it, and that's really awesome and all, but I bet you that I could fly rings around that metal box with the _Normandy_ ," Joker said.

"And the fact that they could most likely turn us and the _Normandy_ into very small pieces before you even complete that first ring?" Shepard asked drily.

Joker simply shrugged in response. "Details."

Shepard shook his head before turning back to look at the other ship, which now dominated the entirety of the viewport.

" _Dios mios_ …" James muttered from behind him.

"Look at their guns," Garrus said, pointing at the sides of the ship's hull.

"That would be the one thing you notice," Shepard said, even as he took note of the odd placement of the ship's weaponry. Did they not use mass accelerators as their ship-to-ship weaponry?

"Turians haven't used broadside-style weaponry since well before we left Palaven for space. Yet here's an over seven kilometer long monstrosity using them. Advanced yet primitive, don't you think?" Garrus asked, ignoring Shepard's jab.

"By the look of those guns Garrus, I think primitive is the last word I'd use to describe them," he said, turning to look at the Turian.

Garrus' only response was a twitch of his mandibles as he continued to stare.

"Incoming communication from the ship," EDI said after a moment.

"Patch it through," said Shepard, mentally preparing himself for the imminent meeting.

 _"_ _Systems Alliance vessel,"_ came a heavily-accented yet undeniably English-speaking voice laced with static and impatience. _"You are expected. Land at the following coordinates."_ With that, the comms fell quiet just as suddenly as they had opened.

"Well, aren't they friendly? Reminds me of Noveria," said Joker as he began to pilot the _Normandy_ towards the designated bay.

Shepard, for his part, could do nothing but wonder as to just what exactly he had landed himself in this time.

* * *

Nemros stared at the tiny vessel that had just touched down before him within one of the _Shadow_ 's enormous hangar bays, the ship seemingly taking up no space whatsoever. Was this the best that humanity could construct here in this reality? Even the Defence Monitors employed by the Imperial Navy to safeguard unimportant worlds from pirates and minor raids were three times larger than this ship, and those were incapable of Warp travel. But perhaps he was wrong, and this ship was built for diplomacy rather than war.

To his left stood Epistolary Vargus, still weak from his ordeal and only able to stand thanks to his force staff, while on his right stood the massive adamantium-clad form of Honored Brother Arathen, his friend, mentor and once-superior. Behind him were Brother-Sergeant Thram and his squad. So it was that seven Astartes found themselves forcing back millennia of hatred and centuries of combat experience when they beheld the forms descending from the lowered ramp of the ship and onto the _Shadow_ 's blessed deck.

Xenos. Three of them to be exact, accompanied by two traitors. The hilt of _Defiance_ squeaked alarmingly as Nemros' shaking ceramite-clad hand tightened around it in a crushing vice. Decades of hypnotherapy rushed to the forefront of his mind, flooding his view with images of xenos slaughtering humans, enslaving them, or dragging them off to do innumerable and unspeakable things to them. Centuries of hate screamed at him to act, to order Thram and his squad to cut these creatures down while _Defiance_ drank deeply of the blood of the traitors.

For a moment, he teetered. Hate fought against rationality; zealotry warred against reason. All the while he and the other Marines continued to stare, seeing the blasphemous forms and their cohorts approach ever nearer.

With a monumental force of will, he managed to drive back some of the disgust that threatened to overwhelm him. He had made his decision to aid these humans already, and as he had told himself then, they were not his humanity. All he could do was act, and hope that when he died, the Emperor would not abandon his soul for his heretical decision, as far away from Him as he was already.

So when the five individuals came to a halt before him, he did not draw _Defiance_ from its sheath and cut them all in half in one smooth motion. Instead, he choose to simply say, "In the name of the Immortal Emperor who sits forever upon the Golden Throne, and in the name of the Imperium of Man, I greet you."

* * *

Shepard was shocked. He had come expecting to have to beg, to plead, to have to unleash all of his legendary persuasive skills upon these newcomers in the hopes of coaxing them to their side, and they had simply agreed to do so after he had explained the nature of the threat of the Reapers. Perhaps he had come to expect otherwise after years of denials, but the acceptance was most certainly a nice change of pace for him.

"That's it?" he asked incredulously. "You want nothing in return?"

"Nothing," boomed the one who had identified himself as Brother-Captain Nemros. "There will be provisions of course."

"Of course," Shepard said eagerly. Things had gone so well so far that he was more than willing to grant the giants a few wishes.

"First, there will be no exchange of technology. Our equipment is sacred to us, and will not be defiled by the hands of those unworthy to wield it."

The excessive religious dogma had been a real shock to him. He had thought that the old religions of Earth had largely died out after the discovery of the Prothean ruins on Mars, but clearly some people had clung to their faiths more intensely than others. Shifting through it all required some mental gymnastics, but Shepard thought he was gradually becoming more adept at doing such.

"Second, while we will fight alongside you, the only souls allowed aboard this vessel will be ours."

"Very well. Anything else?"

"Yes. The secrets that involve our transformation shall remain such: secrets. There will be no questions asked, no spies trying to steal our knowledge. The genecrafting that the Emperor used to create our predecessors at the beginning of the Great Crusade will remain in its rightful hands."

Great Crusade? A genecrafting Emperor? Transformation? Questions raced back and forth in his mind as he contemplated the titans that loomed over him.

"What exactly are you?" John Shepard, mortal Savior of the Galaxy, asked the power armor-clad figures that dominated the room that they stood in.

"We are the Space Marines of the Iron Sentinels Fifth Company, and through our duty and through our deaths we are bound to the protection of humanity," the god of war reverberated.

* * *

Vargus watched impassively as Shepard shuffled out of the room after the debate over whether or not the Iron Sentinels would aid the Systems Alliance in their war against these so-called _Reapers_ , having only half-focused on the deliberation. Idly, he mentally congratulated the Captain on his successful verbal sparring. He never thought the man would be one with a penchant for diplomacy. But then, the Captain was a Space Marine, a leader amongst his Brothers and a god to the mortal citizens of the Imperium, so perhaps such surprise was unwarranted.

It appeared that mankind had a penchant for fighting genocidal Abominable Intelligences, no matter the reality. Brother Manswell had once shared a tale from his training by the priests of the Red Planet about the Men of Iron, the sentient mechanical guardians of humanity during the Dark Age of Technology that had allowed humans to focus solely upon their religion of unchecked scientific progress. These same protectors that had once faithfully defended their creators later turned upon them, slaughtering humans in the untold trillions across tens of thousands of worlds before mankind was barely able to defeat them, ushering in the downfall of mankind's first great civilization and the Age of Strife. While these Abominable Intelligence were different, they still had one objective: to destroy all life. Little wonder then that the Emperor, in all of His wisdom, had placed a ban on such creations.

 ** _Look at them, so helpless and unsuspecting, so naïve. Why do you hold back, Vargus?_**

The Epistolary gritted his teeth, forcing his mental shields to extend even deeper into his mind. He no longer had the same depth of control over his power that he once had, something he suspected the Voice to be directly responsible for. Many times now his hand had drifted towards the bolt pistol holstered at his waist, determined to prevent himself from becoming a danger to his Brothers, but each time he had stayed it. For now he could continue to serve, while Nemros still needed his advice. However, should the daemon become more insistent in its advances he would not hesitate to do what had to be done.

The Voice let out a deep, rolling laugh that filled every inch of his mind. **_I hold myself back for now, little Vargus, so that you may have the chance to accept the honor of becoming Secondborn. But do not think you can keep yourself from me forever. I_** **will** ** _take what is rightfully mine._**

Eyes closed, fists clenched, and limbs shook as Vargus poured everything into driving back the daemon into the recesses of his mind. He was a Space Marine, a member of the Emperor's Finest. He would not yield to this unholy creature, no matter the cost.

"Brother?" came a voice from in front of him. "Are you alright?"

Opening his eyes to the slightly concerned face of Nemros, he relaxed his efforts, knowing that the beast had been driven back for now. "I am fine," he lied, "though still somewhat weak."

"If you insist. Come, we must tell our Brothers of what we have learned today and how we must proceed as a result."

"By your command Brother," Vargus said as he gave the room one last look. Though he had not given the negotiations had his undivided attention, he had been correct when he had advised Nemros. They had reached a crossroads, and the only thing they could do now was fight.

He just hoped that they had the strength to see this fight through to its bitter end.


	6. The Lair of the Xeno

_Chapter 5: The Lair of the Xeno_

The _Shadow_ had been contacted by the _Normandy_ after it had exited the Warp without incident above a planet that they had called Tuchanka. Ostensibly, this meeting was to further cooperation between the natives of this reality and the Space Marines by having the two groups coordinate their plans for the upcoming battle. In reality, Nemros suspected the other group of having more nefarious designs, and had planned accordingly. Behind him stood Epistolary Vargus and Apothecary Slenarr, both ready to act the moment that anything treacherous should occur.

Nemros sneered in disgust at the sight that greeted him. The traitor leader, Shepard, flanked by a pair of xenos had met him at the airlock of the ship that had they called the _Normandy_. The blue parody of the holy human form and the tall, vaguely avian alien that he had seen before. Was the man trying to send some sort of message here? Or were the aliens his minders?

"Welcome to the _Normandy_ ," Shepard said amiably enough, a smile plastered across his face. When Nemros did not deign to respond, the smile faltered slightly. "If you'll follow me to the War Room, we can begin."

Nemros, Slenarr, and Vargus all followed after Shepard's form, albeit not without some difficulty. The cramped corridor that they had to traverse was clearly not designed for individuals with their bulk in mind, and they had to hunch over slightly until they reached a large, open room with a holographic projection of the galaxy. Nemros was briefly thankful that he had decided against bringing the Terminators. The two Veteran Brothers would have been unable to fit inside the airlock, never mind the rest of this tiny vessel.

Crewmen stopped and stared as the three Marines passed by their stations, their attentions grabbed first by idle curiosity, then by openmouthed awe as ceramite boots pounded down the neck of the ship and through what had to be the command room, each step rattling and mildly deforming the material used to make the deck plating. If this were the supposed pinnacle of human engineering, as Shepard had boasted in their last meeting, then Nemros was not impressed in the slightest.

After making their way through the command room, the Marines were confronted by the sight of a pair of guards nervously standing next to a scanner. Shepard and his coterie had already passed through without fuss, leaving the trio alone with the two already-shaking guards.

"I assume you expect us to let you scan us," Nemros asked, his voice booming and echoing within the confined space of the scanner room, amplified as it was already to inhuman levels by his helmet's vox systems.

"Y-yes," one of them mumbled, not looking the Captain in the eye. Nemros did not fault her overmuch though, as he stood nearly a full meter above her. "All weapons have to be left here as well."

Nemros snorted before simply pushing on through, ignoring the pair of them. The scanner blared an interesting mixture of sounds as it simultaneously attempted to protest the ignoring of protocol while beeping confusedly as it struggled to identify previously unknown metals and alloys. Vargus and Slenarr likewise forced themselves through, with the scanner going particularly haywire when Vargus passed through. Unheeded throughout it all were the feeble protests of the two guards as they attempted to salvage what they could of their dignity.

Making their way into the War Room, they were confronted with the sight of Shepard, the two aliens that had been with him already, and another three. One Nemros had seen before, the hunchbacked lizard, but the other two, a lanky amphibian with one cranial horn and another one of the tall avians, were unknown to him.

"Ah, new soldiers Shepard described, fascinating. Human? Possibility of genetic engineering very high if so. Have to ask, is that powered armor?" asked the amphibian in a voice that was much higher pitched than any human was capable of producing. Nemros was slightly taken aback at the creature's correct assumptions and rapid rate of speech. How the xeno had not passed out due to lack of air through that outburst alone mystified him. Perhaps its biology incorporated a third or fourth lung that allowed it to speak as it did.

The second avian xeno merely nodded in the direction of the trio of intruders, hands remaining clasped behind its back.

"Mordin, try not to run any experiments on them. You've got enough on your plate as it is," Shepard admonished the amphibian in a light tone.

"Of course Shepard," said 'Mordin,' though Nemros was unsure whether Mordin was the creature's name or the name of its species. Either way, he cared not.

"My apologies," said Shepard as he turned back towards the three Space Marines. "You already know who I am, so allow me to introduce the rest of us." He pointed towards the blue xeno, who nodded towards them in return. "Liara T'Soni, Prothean archaeologist and intelligence broker." A gesture towards the more familiar of the avians. "Garrus Vakarian, marksman and Turian Anti-Reaper Task Force leader." A flick of the alien's mandibles marked his silent reply. A nod towards the hunchbacked lizard. "Urdnot Wrex, leader of the Krogan clans of Tuchanka." Another gesture, this time towards the second of the avians. "Primarch Victus, leader of the Turian people." A slight turn of the head towards the only remaining unannounced figure in the room. "Mordin Solus, Salarian scientist and former STG."

In response, Nemros nodded and gestured towards himself, "Brother-Captain Nemros, Captain of the Iron Sentinels Fifth Company. With me are Epistolary Vargus," he motioned towards the blue-clad Librarian as he mentioned him, "and Apothecary Slenarr." The impassive Apothecary made no move as all eyes in the room shifted in his direction.

"Curious," the one named Mordin mumbled as he turned back towards the large holographic table that dominated the room. "Irrelevant, however. Must discuss how we are to deploy genophage cure."

"Any ideas?" Shepard asked.

"Yes. Conventional methods too slow, too unrefined. Possibility exists of Krogan not being cured fully. Have to think different, bigger."

The Salarian bent over and began typing furiously on a holographic display, bringing up the image of a thin, tall spire that dominated the surrounding wastes. "The Shroud?" asked Wrex skeptically.

"Yes. Only way to ensure global spread of cure. As mentioned, spread through water too slow. Could take years for cure to have effect. Voluntary cure treatments would be met with skepticism, claims of treachery. Has to be Shroud."

"Well," Wrex grunted as he began typing on a display of his own. "Suppose now's just as good a time as any to mention what my scouts reported to me just before this meeting."

Nemros watched as the display shifted, placing a figure that he recognized from Shepard's tales as one of the Reapers directly in front of the so-called Shroud facility. He nodded faintly at the height that was listed next to the figure: one hundred and fifty-eight meters. A worthy foe, to be sure. Even the god machines of the Adeptus Titanicus were not that tall, though they were undoubtedly more than a match for this Abominable mockery.

"Gets even better too," the Krogan said before typing away again, slowly and deliberately this time, as if wanting to build up as much suspense as he could before the reveal.

The holographic array shifted once more, moving to a position away from the spire and towards a large group of Reaper soldiers that were moving in the direction of the Shroud en masse. No doubt the Intelligence had foreseen their plan and was taking steps to prevent it.

"Hell Wrex, got anything else you wanna ruin our day with?" Shepard asked as he stared at the amorphous blob that constituted the Reaper repositioning.

This time it was the Salarian that spoke up. "Shepard, Reaper using Shroud, dispersing a poison into Tuchanka's atmosphere. Could ruin entire planet's biosphere, kill all Krogan planetside. Situation problematic."

"Suppose I walked right into that one," Shepard grunted. "The Reaper by itself we could probably deal with, albeit messily. But that mob makes things extremely dangerous for anyone we deploy for this. Take too long and we're trapped between a Reaper and a large force."

This Nemros could do. Battle would help take his mind off the fact that he was helping traitors save xeno races from extinction. "The Iron Sentinels will deal with these disgusting creatures," he said, eyeing the display that portrayed the unholy forms that the Company would be facing within the hour.

Aside from Vargus and Slenarr, who had undoubtedly expected such a response from their Captain, everyone in the War Room turned to look at Nemros.

"You're sure?" Shepard asked skeptically. "The _Normandy_ 's showing around three thousand husks of all types down there. You'll be overrun in minutes."

Nemros simply snorted in reply. "Let them come in their hundreds, their thousands, their tens of thousands. We will never break."

Shepard still looked doubtful. "We could divert some of Wrex's Krogan to help, but you'd still be massively outnumbered."

"That will not be necessary."

Shepard simply shrugged at that. "If I hadn't seen the footage of you guys on Benning, I'd force you to accept," he said. "But you know what you're capable of. Now, about that Reaper…"

The various xenos and Shepard immediately began arguing over the best course of action, but Nemros ignored their droning in favor of opening a vox channel to the _Shadow_. "Brother Manswell," he said.

 _"_ _Yes Captain?"_ came the mechanical tones of the Company's techmarine.

"Arm our Brothers, the Company is going to war."

* * *

Chaplain Xeras looked about as Marines tromped in and out of the armory, tending to the blessed machine spirits within their weapons. Placating them with sacred oils and murmured prayers, the holy armaments were made ready to once more destroy the enemies of mankind. Heavy bolters were fed belts of shells, their barrels waiting for their opportunity to give voice to the fury of their wielders, while plasma guns were handled delicately lest the machine spirits refuse to cooperate on the battlefield – or worse. Flamers were fitted with tanks of holy promethium, their rebuking tongues primed to scour the wretchedness and sin from their targets. All of this was done, Xeras noticed approvingly, with the appropriate respect that was due to the tools which the Emperor Himself had given unto them.

On the other side of the bay stood Brother Manswell, overseeing a group of Servitors as they diligently tended to one of the Company's Predators, carefully and reverently arming the tank's main autocannon with mass-reactive shells so that the Emperor's Justice could be better enacted upon their foes. Next to the Predator lay a pair of squat Razorbacks, their venerable machine spirits ready and willing to transport the faithful, while their twin-linked assault cannons waited impatiently to drown the enemies of mankind beneath a hail of cased rounds.

Xeras, however, noted that all of these preparations were done with a subtle sense of uneasiness. Many amongst the Company had been extremely skeptical when Brother-Captain Nemros had announced his decision to aid the xenos of this galaxy along with their traitorous human allies, a few no doubt bordering on mutiny at being told not to shoot the aliens. A number of the more outspoken Marines had voiced their intense displeasure at Nemros' decision, but the Captain had reminded them that the fate of humanity was at stake here, and that to leave them to their fate would be an even worse decision. The xenos would be dealt with in due time, but for now the Abominable Intelligences known as the Reapers and their pawns would face the full might of the Emperor's Finest.

Xeras would have been lying if he said that he did not have doubts of his own. While temporary and desperate alliances with xeno races were extremely rare and the knowledge of them suppressed, they were indeed formed in the face of truly desperate situations. It pained him to admit it, but this was one such situation. However, the alien was a treacherous creature, and not to be trusted. No doubt the Company would find themselves turning their guns against their so-called 'allies' before all of this was over.

Breathing deeply to chase away his misgivings, he turned and made his ways towards the _Shadow_ 's Reclusiam. Nemros had asked him to speak before their upcoming deployment in an effort to bolster the flagging spirits of his Brothers. Despite his misgivings, he had accepted. Such was the burden and the satisfaction of a Chaplain.

Plain, unadorned slabs of adamantium made up the doors to the Reclusiam, a reflection of the chapter's austere attitude, an attitude that Xeras wholeheartedly subscribed to. What mattered was not the external, but rather the internal. Bravery, strength of will, and an indomitable spirit were what made one great, not battle honors and heraldry. In the interior, a number of banners hung from the vaulted ceiling, each telling of a time when those values, rather than glory seeking, enabled the Iron Sentinels to prevail over foes that outnumbered them many times over. The sight of those simple pieces of cloth never failed to stir Xeras' twin hearts.

Most of his Brothers were already inside, awaiting his arrival. He could feel their eyes following him as he marched up the center aisle to take his place at the shrine to the Emperor, could sense the doubts that simmered just below the surface of the facades they presented. All of them looked to him in this moment for guidance. He could not fail them. He would not fail them.

Patiently he waited as the last few Marines shuffled in and joined their Brothers in neat, ordered rows. Some were adorned in their black and gray power armor, though most wore simple, spun robes. As for Xeras himself, he wore his midnight-black power armor adorned with renditions of human skulls. He could not remember the last time he had taken the suit off, for a Chaplain was never truly off duty.

"Brothers," he began once all were ready. "I know why you are all here, the doubts that fill your mind, causing you to question not only your judgment, but also that of the Captain's, and by extension, the Chapter's."

A number of Marines shuffled minutely, the movements so small that they would have been unnoticeable to the eyes of mortals. But to Xeras' trained and enhanced eyes, the Marines were practically telegraphing their emotions. Unease and stifled anger rippled throughout the room at his words.

"I say this in response to your worries: don't! Yes, we fight alongside xenos and traitors, but we are not beholden to them! We will never be beholden to them, nor will we ever bend the knee to them! Everything we do today and in the future, we do for the betterment of mankind! If that means working alongside these filthy aliens, then so be it. For today we fight the Abominable Intelligence, but tomorrow we secure mankind's rightful place within this galaxy!"

The attitude of his audience was shifting, from skeptical to accepting, but there were still undercurrents and bastions of doubt. Xeras knew that his Brothers would never fully accept the necessity of their actions, but they would come to rationalize the decisions that caused them to fight alongside impure beasts.

"And rightfully named they are, these Abominable Intelligences!" he roared, slamming his fist down upon the shrine and sending a resounding _clang_ throughout the room as ceramite bounced off unyielding adamantium. "They run rampant, thinking themselves gods, deciding who lives and dies, but we know that is the Emperor who is the ultimate arbitrator of the souls of men, not these forsaken and heretical machines! For their blasphemy, for their sheer hubris, we shall crush them beneath the treads of our war machines! We shall blow them away in hurricanes of fire, and lay waste to their heinous armies through fire and sword! None can stand against the might of the Emperor's Finest!"

His Brothers began to cheer, the noise of their roars resounding throughout the room and reverberating within each man's chest. Xeras smiled beneath his helmet, which took the shape of a ghastly, leering skull. He could feel his spirits lifting alongside those of his Brothers, and knew only one thing remained to be done.

"Brothers!" he said, raising his Crozius Arcanum above his head.

The din immediately came to a halt as forty Space Marines eagerly awaited the next words of their Chaplain.

"What is your duty?" he asked.

"To serve the Emperor's will," they responded in unison, each man knowing instinctively the lines of the Litany of Duty, years of repetition and hypnotherapy immediately rushing to the fore.

"What is the Emperor's will?" he asked again, louder this time.

"That we fight and die," they responded once more, their tone rising to match his.

"What is death?" Louder, zeal rushing to boil blood.

"It is our duty." Louder, conviction rising with every word.

"What is your duty?"

 **"** **To serve the Emperor's will!"** Xeras and his Brothers roared together, the sound echoing throughout the room and into the corridors beyond, until the _Shadow_ practically quaked. Let all the horrors of the universe come, they would not break.

* * *

Far above the surface of Tuchanka, four pods rocketed out from a truly massive ship before making their way through the planet's atmosphere. Propelled by mighty thrusters and guided by venerable machine spirits, the gray and black pods shifted course, aiming for a constantly moving location, the coordinates for which were fed in real time to the machines by the _Shadow_ 's tactical cogitators.

Breaking into the thin atmosphere of the planet, the pods began firing the first of a series of retrorockets in order to slow their descent, each firing having been meticulously and painstakingly programmed prior to the launch of the pods. The first retrorocket fired just after the entrance into the atmosphere, with the last firing a minute and a half later at a distance of fifty meters up from the ground. Ten seconds later they slammed into the ranks of the Reaper husks that they had been directed at, crushing a number of them beneath their adamantium hulls and blowing even more off of their feet due to the shockwaves produced by their impact.

Marauders rushed to direct Cannibals into position, using all of their primitive and murderous intellect to do so. Husks mindlessly raced for the pods and began banging against the sides in a futile attempt to reach whatever lay inside them, while Brutes snarled and forced their ways through the mutated masses in an effort to pry open the stubborn adamantium. All the while, the ancient machine spirits within each pod silently awaited the command from the _Shadow._

As another series of flaming pods became faintly visible within the dusty brown skies, the activation pulse was sent from the _Shadow_ 's command deck, sending plates of adamantium outwards and downwards, crushing a number of hapless Husks where they stood and revealing assault cannons and missile batteries, which promptly opened fire as the machine spirits began acquiring targets. Unholy mergings of cybernetics and dead flesh were torn apart as anti-personnel rounds tipped with diamantine ripped through them with little resistance, often shredding other forms standing behind them. Others vanished in thunderous explosions and clouds of rock and dust as whirlwind launchers fired series of Vengeance missiles into massed groups. By the time the rest of the pods had slammed into the ground, nearly all of the mindless creatures had been crushed without mercy.

Stepping out of his pod as others rained down around him, Nemros spoke into his vox. "Brothers, in the name of the Emperor, let none survive!" he roared as he raised his combi-plasma gun and fired off a burst of bolt shells into one of the few survivors of the initial strike.

The Iron Sentinels had come, and the days of the abomination were over.


	7. The Maelstrom of Battle

_Chapter 6: The Maelstrom of Battle_

Husks lurched forwards, their desiccated and grotesque parodies of the holy human form driven only by one pounding command: kill. All higher thought processes had been lost during their forcible conversion at the hands of the Reapers, causing them to ignore any ideas of taking cover or flanking their enemies, instead making a straight forward charge at their enemies.

Had Arathen still been capable of making the expression, his face would have contorted in disgust at such a wasteful tactic. This was no battle, he thought as he rotated his Dreadnought's chassis to face the onrushing abominations, this was a slaughter. Where even the brutal and single-minded Ork was capable of simple tactics, these beasts simply charged forward en masse, confident in the strength of their numbers to overwhelm any defenders, even if they had to climb over a mountain of bodies to reach them.

Matching tips of brilliant white light coalesced within the ends of his twin-linked lascannon before launching outward, the beams outright incinerating those Husks hit by them and melting those that were either barely missed or suffered the slightest of touches. Those few that had avoided the cleansing beams were set alight by the heavy flamer that was attached to his power fist. The very last creature, through some instinctual form of self-preservation remaining from its past life, left its comrades to die as it continued to rush forward. For its impudence, Arathen grabbed it within the grip of his power fist and brought it up to eyelevel with his sarcophagus.

He contemplated its twisting form and gnashing teeth for a moment, idly wondering if any vestige of the soul of the human it had once been still resided within its twisted frame, before deciding that such questions were best left to the Company's Chaplain. The tiniest twitch of what was left of his mortal hand caused the power fist to contract sharply, sending a series of loud _crack_ s through the air as every bone within its body was reduced to powder. Another flex of his hand sent the broken wreckage flying into yet another wave of its fellows, knocking over a pair of them as the gruesome projectile impacted.

Before the onrushing horde could meet its fate at his hands, however, they were all smoothly and efficiently dispatched within a few seconds by his Devastator Brothers, who wielded massive consecrated heavy bolters that required all of the prodigious strength of a Space Marine to use effectively. Arathen huffed slightly at being denied a chance to vent his wrath upon the enemies of mankind. Ever since his internment within this cold, hard shell of adamantium and arcane mechanisms, battle had been the only chance for him to remember what it was like to live once more. Checking his annoyance, he stomped away from the carnage to another part of the line where his presence was required.

The Battle Brothers of the Fifth Company had taken up position within and around the scattered remains of ancient xenos ruins, denying their foe any hope of flanking them and forcing them to charge the guns of the Space Marines in the futile hopes of being able to fight back. Time and time again Arathen and his Brothers had slaughtered them, yet their enemy showed no sign of relenting, no sense of self-preservation.

As he walked, Arathen observed with pride the status of his Brothers as they fought. Devastators broke up the obvious groups with roaring heavy bolters and the blinding, blistering screams of plasma cannons, while the Marines of the Tactical squads held the line against those that survived. To their sides and above them roared the Assault Marines, chainswords blaring and bolt pistols blasting their fury at the abominations that surged forth to overwhelm them. All of this was done with a calm sense of chaotic order, each Brother knowing his place and his target. No round was wasted, and no foe was left alive. All across the line not an inch was given, though death was freely offered up to all who dared to approach.

Soon he came across the one Brother he had been looking for. **"Brother, I relish the chance to do battle once more, but I long for a true challenge. Is this the best that you can provide?"** he boomed as he came to a stop next to Nemros, who was busy slicing through one of the creatures that the natives had dubbed a Marauder with his power sword. Turning, he let his fury coalesce within his lascannon arm once more before sending the gathered power forth to spear through one of the hulking amalgamations of flesh and machine.

"It is good to see your zeal has not waned with the passage of years Brother," Nemros grunted as he turned and fired a burst of bolter shells into another one of the abominations, tearing the thing to pieces as the mass reactive shells detonated within its body. Behind them boomed the autocannon mounted on the _Emperor's Fist_ , the Predator tank belching out a shell that exploded within the midst of a group of Cannibals, the blast vaporizing them while the heavy bolters mounted in its side sponsons ripped a handful of Husks to shreds. "Perhaps, you would like to challenge one of those Reapers by yourself," the Captain wryly asked as he holstered _Defiance_ to better grip his combi-plasma with both hands.

 **"** **That would be better than these weak affronts to the Emperor. The fact that this mankind is forced to rely upon the aid of xenos to defeat them is pathetic."**

Nemros simply grunted, not bringing up the fact that by extension, the Marines of the Iron Sentinels were relying on xenos themselves. It was an unpleasant truth in an unpleasant galaxy, and the two Brothers were most familiar with both.

"Sergeant Thram is reporting a heavy push on the left flank Brother, and I must replace the one I send to his aid. I trust that you will ensure that this front remains secure?" Nemros asked after a moment. Arathen knew that the Captain was already aware of the answer, but he welcomed the change in subject all the same.

 **"** **Of course Brother. Hesitate not in delivering the Emperor's wrath."**

* * *

Thram brought his growling chainsword upwards through the Husk's torso, the blade drinking deeply of the spraying blood. Another Husk sought to take advantage of its comrade's state of disembowelment by leaping at him while his blade was busy, but Thram's left hand lashed out, sending the creature flying backwards with the sound of shattering bones.

"Is there enough death for you here, Malthus?" asked Hrim as the Marine smashed a Marauder against the side of a crumbling wall, necrotized flesh and ancient stone both giving way beneath the force of the blow, burying the crumpled form beneath a ton of rock.

Malthus did not respond, instead blowing the head off of a Cannibal with a well-placed round from his Stalker boltgun before sending a trio of forms toppling with a quick burst. "There is blood aplenty, yet there is no challenge here," he spoke as he tore the sickle-shaped magazine from his bolter and slammed a new one in place. "I fear for our skills, if our battles continue to be like this. Laxness has no place within the servant of the Emperor."

"If that is how you feel Brother, then perhaps we should leave the rest of these cretins to you," Hrim suggested.

Joh simply scoffed in response to that, and Thram found himself hard-pressed to disagree with the unspoken comment. There were near a hundred of the abominations closing on their position, and even the four of them ran the risk of being pulled down and brought to an ignominious end. One Battle Brother on his own, no matter how mighty a warrior he was, stood no chance.

"Did Nemros say when aid would be arriving?" Hrim asked calmly as his bolter spit death at the oncoming foes.

"No," intoned Thram as he pulled a frag grenade from the waist of his power armor and lobbed it. "Merely that it would be soon."

"Then let us pray that-" whatever Joh had been about to say was lost as a Brute exploded outwards, sending a hail of gore and metal shards into the abominations that had surrounded it.

Thram's eyes never left his foes, though the faint reek of ozone and a ping of his auspex told him all that he needed to know about their rescuer. The crackling burst of lightning a second later that sent smoldering Husks tumbling to the ground was an unnecessary, yet thoroughly welcome, validation of his conclusion.

"Come Brothers," said Epistolary Vargus as he hefted his force staff, the power of the Warp raging within his eyes and sparking at the tips of his fingers. "Let us see how they fare against the might of the Immaterium."

* * *

This was what he had needed. What he had longed for.

A word passed his lips, the language it was spoken in incomprehensible to those with no sensitivity to the Warp, yet the results were immediately apparent. A dozen Husks folded in on themselves, the force of gravity in and around them suddenly increased by a thousandfold, crushing everything caught within its uncaring grip. A raising of his hand brought forth a score of torches on the battlefield, and forms could be faintly seen writhing inside unquenchable infernos that devoured their flesh greedily.

Battle drove away the Voice, gave him control of his mind once more. No more silky whispers of unlimited strength, no more lies of an empire to rival the might of the Imperium. Within the maelstrom of battle, the only voice in his head was his own.

Yet where the Voice had departed, another entity had rushed to fill the void left behind. It was laughably weak, childlike in comparison, yet still it prodded at the limits of his consciousness, demanding entry and control, and Vargus had not survived as long as he had by underestimating his foes. He needed to know just what this being was, and if it were a threat to the Company.

A furrowing of his eyebrows sent a powerful shockwave rippling outwards from his force staff, breaking the weak with its potency and sending the more durable flying backwards. Capitalizing upon the momentary reprieve, he lowered his defenses by a minute fraction.

 **YOU WILL SUBMIT.**

Oily black tendrils seeped through the crack, only to be easily rebuffed by Vargus' defenses. _Allow me to guess,_ he thought even as he reached out mentally to psychically destroy the primitive mind of a rampaging Brute, leaving the mindless shell splayed out on the radioactive desert sands. _You are the Reaper that foolishly seeks to bar our way._

 **YOU WILL SUBMIT.** The entity boomed once more, trying yet again to brute force its way into his mind, only to be once again rebuffed by Vargus' defenses.

Vargus mentally scoffed at the chosen tactic. There was no subtlety, no intricate weaving of one's soul and will to completely erase a foe from existence. This Reaper's tactics were simply a repeat of the tactics portrayed by its minions. For a mind so ancient and vast, it was truly and pathetically simple in its thought patterns.

 **YOU ARE AN ANOMALY. YOU WILL BE STUDIED. SUBMIT.**

 _I have fought beings far more powerful and far more terrible than you, Abominable Intelligence. With all of the power granted to me by the Immortal Emperor, I prevailed against them, as I shall against you._

 **IRRELEVANT. WE ARE YOUR SALVATION THROUGH DESTRUCTION. YOU** ** _WILL_** **SUBMIT.**

 _Irrelevant, you say? Know this, blasphemous machine: when my Brothers and I stand triumphantly over your broken corpse, and the implacable tread of mankind reduces the rest of your ilk to dust, then you will realize that salvation is from the Emperor alone, and that He has commanded your destruction._

With that said, Vargus forced the entity from his mind entirely, throwing the Reaper out of his mental landscape with a pulse of psychic power. Minions on the battlefield reeled in conjunction with their master, leaving them vulnerable to the Space Marines who capitalized upon the opportunity presented to them. Dozens more forms were cut down, adding to the carpet of gray and brown bodies that blanketed the ground.

 _"_ _Vargus,"_ came the voice of Nemros over his vox bead. _"I take it that we have you to thank for that?"_

"Yes Captain. We have something to discuss after this is over."

 _"_ _Understood. Report back to the center of the line, bring Thram with you too. The Thunderhawks have delivered the rest of our machines, and the time has come to push the attack."_

"Are you sure Nemros?" Vargus asked even as he motioned for Thram and his squad to follow him back. "We have a good position here, and our enemy is content to throw themselves at us."

 _"_ _The Emperor did not make us so that we could sit idly about Brother. We shall push into their heart and destroy them utterly."_

"As you wish," he said before flicking off his vox. He had no desire to argue the Captain's commands, not that such a course of action would result in anything of course. Nemros' stubbornness was legendary amongst the Chapter for a reason.

The throaty roar of Rhinos and Razorbacks filled the air as he neared the center, while a trio of Thunderhawks screamed past overhead. Two Predators rumbled in front of the armored transports, turrets and sponsons eagerly searching out more foes to destroy. Next to them all stood the proud form of Honored Brother Arathen, his adamantium shell too large for any vehicle.

In the shadow cast by his psychic hood, a smile split Vargus' face. The time had come to show these filthy creatures just what the Emperor's Finest could bring to bear upon them.

* * *

Councilor Valern shifted minutely within his seat, looking up from the dossier that his STG agents had sent to him. Artificial sunlight poured into his office, lavish by Salarian standards, though rather austere by the standards of the other races of the galaxy. A few strategically placed potted plants, imported directly from Sur'Kesh, here and there, enough to capture the eye but nothing ostentatious. He was no Asari, after all.

The report was most troubling. Vast amounts of money was being juggled, shifted from supposedly reputable sources to individuals that simply refused to match up with anyone already registered within the Citadel's databases. It was if the receivers simply did not exist. But that was not what troubled Valern the most.

No, rather it was who was doing the juggling that disturbed him. All back trails pointed to one source alone, though Valern had difficulty believing them. After all, why would Councilor Udina be moving large amounts of money in the middle of an apocalyptic war? What could possibly be his motive for doing so? And perhaps most important of all, who was it all going to?

Troubling. Most extremely troubling, with disastrous implications for all. Valern had his suspicions, but he needed to find out more before he acted on them. Accusing the human Councilor without solid proof when his position was already shaky enough could be enough for the Salarian leadership back on Sur'Kesh all the excuse they needed to replace him, dishonoring him and his family in the process. He shuddered minutely at the thoughts of someone like Dalatrass Linron being appointed to the Council. All of his carefully constructed plans would be ruined if a xenophobe of her caliber were to take his place.

It was unfortunate, really, that he had to work through such an insulated government like his. While subterfuge and sabotage had long been the hallmarks of Salarian political and military tactics, they were nearly useless against an implacable foe such as the Reapers, who simply smashed their way through each isolated race, shattering entire fleets while shrugging off all but the heaviest firepower that could be brought to bear upon them. Trickery could only go so far against them, yet the dalastrasses continued to insist that the old tactics would suffice, and that they did not need the Turians or the humans. Rather than standing together, the hope was that the Reapers would grind themselves into oblivion against the other races, and after it was all over, their race would swoop in and become the dominant power in the galaxy.

Such wishful thinking, he mused, was going to inevitably result in the death of every living person in the galaxy.

Brushing such thoughts from his mind, he pushed the dossier off to the side of his desk at the sound of someone entering his office. Udina could wait for now. He would have Commander Shepard come back to the Citadel after his foray to Tuchanka and they would look into this matter together. Shepard had never liked Udina anyways.

"Kirrahe," he said to the approaching figure, "You wanted to speak to me?"

"Yes, you received my report on Commander Shepard's unexpected detour?"

Of course he had. Commander Shepard was their most valuable asset in this entire war. So valuable, in fact, that the STG had an entire branch dedicated to ensuring his wellbeing, and all of its reports crossed his desk sooner rather than later. With Solus now onboard the _Normandy_ , things had become easier thanks to the old scientist's cooperation. "What about it?" he asked the Major.

"I believe that we've found out what had the humans in such an uproar around the time he went back to Benning," Kirrahe said as he input a series of commands into his omni-tool.

The computer imbedded in Valern's desk flickered for a second as footage of Reaper troops appeared onscreen. "What's this?" he asked in curiosity. Kirrahe no doubt had a reason for showing him something for he had already seen. Kirrahe always had a reason for what he did. It was what made him such a good STG officer.

"A live feed from one of our satellites over Tuchanka," Kirrahe said as he continued to fiddle with the glowing orange tool that illuminated his forearm. "Watch," he said after a few more moments.

Valern continued to watch as Reaper forms lurched forward, charging something off screen. The satellite panned, following their advance until Valern saw what had Kirrahe all worked up. The onrushing forms were being torn to shreds as they tried to advance, blown in twain as they howled their impotent fury to the uncaring skies. Others melted beneath torrents of flame, flesh sloughing from their frames as they crumpled into puddles of charred bones and cybernetics. All of this was being perpetrated by dozens of massive, armor clad figures wielding weapons the likes of which Valern had never even dreamed of before, utilizing bulky machines that spat death at an alarming rate over the heads of the warriors.

He watched as a Brute charged at one of the soldiers that was carrying a massive, double-barreled cannon, hoping to catch the man off-guard. Instead, the soldier whipped around at a speed that defied all logic and squeezed the trigger on his weapon. For a split second, there was no visible effect, before the Brute simply stopped as if it had run into a thick metal wall, most of its mass having been turned into a cloud of lazily drifting ash. What little remained simply cartwheeled along before coming to a stop at the feet of the soldier that had unceremoniously erased it from existence. The soldier, for his part, ignored the hunk of flesh that now rested beneath him, simply turning to vaporize another Brute.

A trio of the massive figures came rocketing down from off screen, landing amidst a group of Cannibals and Marauders, the force of their landings throwing the nearest Husks off of their feet and sending the rest stumbling back. Before they could react, the rocket troopers acted, massive boots crashing down upon prone forms to reduce them to pulp before lashing out with swords of all things. Valern fully expected them to simply rebound, unable to pierce the thick hides and crude armor of the Husks. Such expectations were shattered, however, when churning teeth sent gouts of blood and liquefied organs spraying into the air to paint macabre frescos on the nearby ruins. Any remaining survivors were quickly cut down by the massive hand cannons that the warriors held in their off hands, before they reengaged their jump packs and flew off to another part of the battlefield.

"Who are these people Kirrahe?" he asked breathlessly.

"Whoever Shepard felt were important enough to leave the incredibly vital issue of the genophage cure behind for a few days. Whoever it is that has the Systems Alliance still bouncing off the walls, to borrow a human term," the STG Major said as he looked Valern in the eyes. "Most likely Councilor, they're our key to having any hope of defeating the Reapers. Between them, a resurgent Krogan, and a unified Human-Turian front…we may actually have a chance at not just surviving this, but truly _winning_."

"The technological advancements alone…" Valern said as the computer screen showed a figure that towered over the rest crushing a Brute with a single blow from a massive, glowing hammer, turning the creature's head into paste.

"It will be tricky, though," Kirrahe muttered in contemplation. "One wrong move and they'll be doing that to us as well. And we have no idea how many of them there are. It could be the Rachni all over again."

"What?" Valern asked. That was a difficult concept to wrap his mind around. The STG knew practically everything there was worth knowing, no matter how secret others thought such knowledge to be.

Kirrahe simply shrugged in response. "We have no sightings prior to Benning. Nothing to compare their weapons to. My advice? Tread very carefully indeed Councilor."

With that, Kirrahe left, only the hissing of the door marking his departure, leaving Valern staring at the feed that continued to play.

His hand reached for a button, depressing it as his fingers found purchase on it. "Councilor Sparatus," he said into the comm channel that had been set up for priority messages between Councilors, eyes never leaving the screen as he did. "We have something incredibly urgent to discuss. Meet me in my office as soon as possible."

Very carefully indeed.

 _Quick author's note: Thank you all for the feedback so far, really really appreciate it._


	8. Disparate Hopes

_A/N: Midterms and laziness delayed this, so here's an extra long chapter for your enjoyment._

 _Chapter 7: Disparate Hopes_

Shepard stumbled through the War Room, his mind entirely focused on placing one foot in front of the other as he made his way towards the _Normandy_ 's QEC. His body ached all over from his exertions on Tuchanka, and if Chakwas knew that he was still trying to work rather than going down and seeing her, she would be dragging him down into the medbay himself. Still, one did not just simply ignore a message from a Councilor, no matter how sore and tired they were, and he still had to talk to Wrex about the funeral for Mordin.

Mordin. That thought sent a jolt of pain through him that was worse than anything that had been inflicted upon him by the Reapers. They had won a great victory today, but at a terrible cost. He had known that a lot of people were going to die when the Reapers inevitably showed up, but somehow he had convinced himself that the people that he had come to call his friends would come through without a scratch. Mordin's death had shown him just how foolish he had been to think that, and that many more would likely die before all of this was over.

Shepard blinked, realizing that he had reached the QEC while he had been distracted with his thoughts. Accepting the incoming call, he was greeted with the blue form of Councilor Valern.

"Councilor," he said tonelessly.

"Shepard. My agents in the STG are telling me that you managed to successfully cure the genophage, and that Urdnot Wrex has agreed to help the Turians on Palaven," said the Salarian Councilor in a careful tone. Clearly even the Councilor had to step carefully around the volatile issue that was the genophage cure.

"I couldn't have done it without Mordin's help," Shepard said with a hint of reproach in his voice, reminding the Councilor that it had been one of his colleagues rather than the Salarian government as a whole that had helped him change history.

"You're right, of course," Valern sighed, his image momentarily distorting as he did. "However, that's not why I called you."

"Oh?"

"I just received your report about Benning, and the people that you met there. About these 'Space Marines.' An interesting read, if I may say so."

"In all honesty, I'm not quite sure what to make of them myself Councilor," Shepard confessed. "They were more than willing to help us, and they took Benning back from Cerberus in less than a day, but…"

"But?" Valern prompted, clearly intrigued by Shepard's unspoken reservations.

"But they're fanatics, simply put Councilor," Shepard said. "They treat their technology as if it were given to them by some god, and I could tell from the way that they reacted to my team that they're intensely xenophobic. It's like someone took Terra Firma and gave them unbelievable pieces of tech."

Valern hummed thoughtfully at that. "But do you think they would be useful against the Reapers despite all that?" he asked after nearly a minute of silent contemplation.

"Absolutely," Shepard said immediately, no hesitation darkening his mind as he responded. "Despite their peculiarities, they're still an extremely powerful force."

"I see," Valern said as he continued to stare at Shepard with eyes that belied the keen political mind that lurked behind them. "My fellow Councilors and I wish to speak to them, secure a public declaration of support. Combined with the vids that are already starting to flood the extranet, we believe it'll be a power boost to public morale."

"Let me guess, you want me to talk to them?"

"Yes. Given how you described them, we feel that you would be best suited to passing on our invitation for them to come to the Citadel for more formal negotiations."

"I can do that," Shepard assured him, masking his own doubts about the feasibility of such talks. "Is there anything else you wanted to talk about?"

"Yes, there is a matter concerning Udina, but that is something that will have to wait until your arrival. I assume you intend to remain for the funeral for Mordin that the Krogan are planning?"

"I was Councilor," he confirmed.

"Very well, that gives us time to work on this matter with these Space Marines, and then we can discuss this other issue in private. Valern out." With that, the QEC flickered off, leaving Shepard alone in the dark as he contemplated how he would have to word this to the power armor-clad giants.

"EDI," he said as he left the QEC room and began to hurriedly make his way towards the cockpit.

 _"_ _Yes Shepard?"_ came the voice of the _Normandy_ 's omnipotent AI.

"Can you tell me if the Marines are back on their ship?"

 _"_ _Yes Shepard. The last of their transports just docked with their ship. Would you like me to establish a connection?"_

"Yes, tell them that I wish to speak to their Captain," he said as he bypassed a pair of crewmen who were preoccupied with a recording of Kalros fighting the Reaper at the Shroud. He had a sneaking suspicion that he would be hearing about that for a long time to come.

 _"_ _Very well Shepard. Your message has been relayed, and the Shipmaster of the_ Duty's Shadow _has agreed to inform him."_

"Good, let me know when he's ready," he said as he came to a halt within the cockpit, mentally rehearsing how he wanted to phrase his request.

* * *

"Captain, the commander of the _Normandy_ says he wishes to speak with you," came the monotone voice of Kemril from behind Nemros.

"Did he say what he wanted?" the Captain said as he continued to stare out into space, looking at the dirty brown ball that floated in front of the _Duty's Shadow_. It took all of his effort not to simply order Kemril to destroy the traitor ship and enact Exterminatus upon the xeno homeworld that taunted him with its slow rotation.

"No Captain."

"Very well," Nemros said as he turned away from the viewport and towards the bank of cogitators used for ship-to-ship communications. Murmuring a prayer to the machine spirits nestled within, he depressed the flashing activation rune and stood back.

 _"_ _Captain?"_ came the low tones of the traitor leader, Shepard. Nemros forced back a gobbet of acid that his Betcher's Gland automatically produced in response to his revulsion. He would never forgive the man for forcing him to betray his oath to the Emperor as he had. It was one thing to save mankind using desperate means. It was another thing entirely to save a xeno species, even if they were that desperate means.

"What is it you seek?" he asked, keeping his voice even as he did.

 _"_ _I've just been contacted by the Council, and they've asked me to pass on their wish for you and your men to meet with them formally on the Citadel."_

This time, Nemros did not bother holding back. "You wish for me to prostrate myself and Brothers before xenos?" he snarled, disgust lacing every syllable. "To do their bidding like a faithless renegade?"

There was a moment of long silence on the other end of the comm. When Shepard spoke again, his voice was filled with hesitation and tinted with a hint of confusion. _"They wish for you to make a formal declaration of your support for the war effort. They feel that it'll be good for morale,"_ he explained, as if being at the beck and call of an alien was only natural for him. It probably was.

"Be silent, traitor," Nemros spat. This was absolutely unthinkable! How could they even expect for him to fall so far from the Emperor's grace?

Yet Nemros was a Space Marine, not one of the blind fanatics of the Ecclesiarchy. He knew that this was necessary, despite him finding new and unexplored depths of hatred for the word in that moment. He sighed raggedly after a few minutes of silence, forcing himself to accept this new course of action. He would need to atone for this heresy as soon as he could.

"Very well," he grudgingly bit out. "Have your crew send the coordinates to the _Duty_ 's Shipmaster. Nemros out," he said before deactivating the cogitators before Shepard could respond. Anymore conversation with the man and he would probably end up ramming _Defiance_ through the array.

"Kemril," he said as he walked towards the ship's command throne and the man embedded upon it, "The _Normandy_ will be contacting us. Make the ship ready for departure."

"Our destination?" Davriel asked even as the command deck began to buzz with activity at Nemros' words.

Nemros took a moment to glance towards the xenos homeworld that remained unmolested beneath the _Duty_ 's mighty guns before looking back towards the aging man. "Further away from the Emperor's light, I fear Shipmaster."

* * *

"What was all that about Shepard?" Joker asked from where he sat in the pilot's chair next to him.

Shepard stared at the massive bulk that constituted the Space Marine ship even as gargantuan engines flared to life and propelled it away from Tuchanka's orbit and towards the system's edge. "I don't know Joker," he confessed as the other ship became progressively smaller and smaller, "But I hope they don't start a war with their actions."

"Yeah, here's hoping."

* * *

Caecilius leaned back into the stiff metal chair, his back grumbling in protest as he did. Idly he glanced at the chronometer on his station, wondering when in the name of the spirits Domitius would be arriving to relieve him. The long shifts in the Citadel Defense Fleet were boring, mindless, and thankless duties, but they were what he had been assigned to, and Caecilius was nothing if not dutiful.

"Anything?" asked Balbus from the station next to him. The two of them had the job of running endless scans of empty space in order to ensure that no enemy could sneak in and launch a surprise assault upon the Citadel.

"Nothing, just like last time. And the time before that, and the time before that…" he said, barely even looking at his instruments as he responded.

"Okay, okay, I get the message," Balbus said, arms raised in mock surrender. "Not like I really expected anything else anyways."

Caecilius simply grunted in response. Routine was grinding him down. Perhaps he should ask his superior for a leave of absence, maybe some leave on Ilium, before the Reapers turned it into a floating ball of slag.

"Hey," Balbus said suddenly, sitting straight up in his chair as he stared at his board.

"What?" he asked in response. It was probably just another piece of debris floating endlessly in the depths of the void. It always turned out to be debris.

"I'm getting some weird readings. Stuff I've never seen before."

"Huh," he said, leaning over to inspect his own instruments. Sure enough, they were going haywire as well.

"None of this matches up with any known comm frequencies or eezo emissions," Balbus said worriedly as he began to flip switches and turn dials in the hopes of the whole matter being nothing more than a simple technical error. When Caecilius saw that none of these efforts made any difference, he began to worry as well.

"Call this in," he said as reached for the intercom, intending to alert Commander Vitus of this new development when a gaping hole was torn open in space, allowing impossible and nigh-incomprehensible colors to spew forth. The sight of the swirling miasma made his head ache as it tried in vain to take in the view, and he averted his eyes as the pain rapidly swelled to the point where he thought his head would burst if he looked any longer, though before he did so he thought he saw an impossibly long object come roaring out, riding the swirling currents.

Out of the very edge of his peripheral vision, he saw the rift snap closed just as rapidly as it had opened. Returning his gaze to where the gash in reality had been, he saw that he had not imagined the object. Where madness had reigned mere seconds ago now sailed a massive dreadnought that was orders of magnitudes larger than even the _Destiny Ascension_ , flagship of the Citadel Defense Fleet that patrolled nearby.

"Balbus," he breathed as his eyes took in the sight of the enormous ship that his mind told him was scientifically impossible, "Forget calling this in to our superiors. Get the damn Council on the line, spirits take protocol."

As Balbus moved to inform the leaders of the known galaxy of the intruders that hung at the edge of the nebula, Caecilius knew deep down that everything that he had ever known and accepted as fact was about to change.

* * *

In the shadows cast by a pair of ruined buildings, mute testaments to the Geth attack that had taken place nearly three years earlier, a solitary figure looked away from the massive bulk that was slowly making its way towards the arms of the Citadel. Moving past a shattered shopfront window and through a pried-open automatic door that had lost all power soon after the assault, he made his way through a winding maze of collapsed hallways and broken staircases until he reached a room that had been left untouched since the Battle of the Citadel.

Inside was a humming and glowing terminal that stood in stark contrast to the dirt, dust, and scattered remnants of better times that lay littered around it. Picking his way across the room, he bent over and input a complex string of letters and numbers, accessing a network that was virtually undetectable through any technology available to those that worked in C-Sec's cyberwarfare branch.

"Sir," he said after a light flashed, indicating that he had connection, "They've arrived."

 _"_ _Good news Operative,"_ came a garbled voice in reply. _"Send the code word to our contact, let him know."_

"Understood sir," the figure said before breaking the link. Quickly sending the appropriate word to the man that his organization had cultivated for years, he proceeded to set the terminal to catastrophic overload before making his way out of the building and towards a waiting and unmarked shuttle.

* * *

"It's them?" Sparatus asked while functionaries scurried through the small waiting room that adjoined the Council chambers, frantically trying to ensure that all was ready for the sudden new arrivals.

"A massive unknown ship tore open a hole in space, bypassing nearly all our defenses in the process, and is making its way here as we speak, refusing all hails as it does so," Valern said dryly as he tapped away at a datapad. "I would assume so Sparatus."

Sparatus felt his mandibles flare in frustration at the answer before checking the facial tic, reassuming the neutral face that his position as Councilor demanded of him. He and his colleagues had figured on having a few more days, based on the average amount of time it took to travel the relays from Tuchanka to the Citadel, to prepare for their new allies. Apparently, however, these strange new soldiers had felt a need to upset all their plans.

"Any word from Tevos?" he asked instead, intent on steering the conversation away from the upcoming confrontation. The Asari Councilor had recently taken to spending a lot of time on Thessia, in endless discussions with the ruling matriarchs, although for the life of him Sparatus had been unable to find out what it was that they were discussing.

"She sent word. She said she'll be here," Valern said absentmindedly, still engrossed as he was in his datapad.

Sparatus snarled in frustration at the Salarian's continued inattentiveness, calm façade breaking. "What is that?" he asked, gesturing towards the object that had so masterfully captured Valern's concentration.

"A report from Udina," the other Councilor said as he turned the datapad off and placed it within his robes. "He says that Alliance scouts are reporting increased Reaper activity, and he's sent the CDF closer to the relay as a precaution."

Sparatus did not miss the faint note of wariness that lay submerged beneath Valern's calm professionalism. "You don't believe him?" he asked.

"I'm a Salarian, Sparatus. As you're so fond of saying, we don't trust anyone."

Before he could retort, the automatic door behind them hissed, heralding the arrival of the Asari Councilor, Tevos. Clad in a regal crimson dress that was more fit for meeting a head of state rather than a group of soldiers, Tevos swept across the room in a hurried pace that still seemed to remain calm.

"Are they here?" she asked, slightly out of breath.

"Almost," Sparatus replied as he motioned towards a vid screen that dominated the wall in front of them. On it was displayed the image of a large, bulky, black and gray transport touching down at the designated landing space, with a large number of C-Sec lined up and waiting for the newcomers to step out.

Another hiss from behind them indicated the arrival of Udina, and in the back of his mind, Sparatus remotely thought that the human Councilor was unusually late before the rest of his mind pushed the thought aside, thoroughly engrossed at the sight of the seven enormous figures that were descending down the lowered frontal ramp of the transport.

They easily dwarfed even the tallest of the Turian C-Sec guards, their leering helmets declining to impassively take in the sight of the rows of blue-clad individuals arrayed before them, hands gripping their weapons tightly. Were it not for the satellite footage from Tuchanka that Valern had shown him, Sparatus would have scoffed at the sight of their armaments. The one he guessed to be their leader, based on the heraldry that adorned his armor, carried a _sword_ of all things, something the majority of the species in the galaxy had not used for millennia, while another carried a long staff that was topped with the image of a skull. Yet he knew that the last thing that those long pieces of metal were, were ceremonial.

The C-Sec Executor waved his hand in the direction of the Citadel Tower before motioning for the soldiers to follow. Two of the soldiers remained where they were, guarding their transport, while the rest tromped off after the Executor and his escort.

"We should get in position," Sparatus said as the vid screen continued to follow their progress. Large numbers of civilians were lining up to gawk at the procession that was snaking its way through the Presidium. Many had their omni-tools out, either recording or taking pictures. Sparatus figured that the extranet had to be blowing up right about now.

"Agreed," said Udina, though he continued to watch the screen. None of them wanted to tear their eyes away from the sight of the giants.

Finally, it was Sparatus who reluctantly broke away when the screen showed the procession reaching the base of the Citadel Tower, slowly followed by the others. Filing out into the Council Chambers, they took up their stations at their podiums, eagerly awaiting the figures that sped upwards in the elevator towards them. In an effort to hide his growing nervousness, Sparatus flicked through the war reports that had been forwarded to him by his own request.

Little had changed since the last reports had been sent to him a few hours ago, but all of those changes had been for the worse. The first report told of another task force that had bravely sought to cover the desperate funneling of reinforcements onto Menae, only to be encircled and shattered by a group of Reapers, resulting in the deaths of nearly ten thousand servicemen and servicewomen. The second reported the fall of yet another city on Palaven to the implacable Reaper onslaught, adding one more division to the list of those that had been lost in the fighting on the Turian homeworld. Sparatus deactivated the podium before it could display the third. He had seen enough. Glancing upwards in time to see the doors to the Chambers open, he silently vowed to do whatever it took to convince these newcomers to fight alongside them, so that their sacrifices would not be in vain.

He blinked as the figures shuffled into the room, the entrance clearly displaying that it had not been designed for individuals their size. The vid screen had not done them the slightest bit of justice. Black and gray armor clacked and whirred as the soldiers pounded their way across the room and ascended the stairs, the metal steps groaning in protest at the sudden load they were made to bear. Two of them remained at the base as guards, while the other three came to a halt at the petitioner's podium.

Tevos proceeded to call the meeting to order and began introductions, but to Sparatus her voice was little more than background noise as he focused his attention solely upon the unknowns. The one on the left wore armor that was solely black with skull decals on the knee, shoulder plate, and chest. His helmet also took the form of a skull, though this one boasted bulging red eye slits that seemed to stare within the very depths of his soul and caused him to flinch away slightly from their hateful glare.

The one on the right, on the other hand, wore armor that only barely resembled those of his fellows, being a deep shade of blue with a gray pauldron. Green eye slits placed deep within his helmet seemed to crackle and writhe invisibly with vast, unknowable power. Strips of paper, actual, real paper Sparatus noticed, littered his armor, held in place by red pieces of wax that were stamped with the likeness of skulls. Looking at this one caused his heart to beat slightly faster and incoherent whispers to dance through his mind, the thoughts formless and slipping away effortlessly whenever he reached out to grasp them.

But it was the one in the middle that truly grabbed his attention. Though Sparatus judged him to be the same height as the others, he exuded an air of bloody nobility that made him seem larger than life. A rich cape of bloody crimson trimmed with black the shade of the void draped across his shoulders and back until it reached down to touch the floor, mirroring the crest that sprouted from his helmet, which alternated between red and black. A sword hung from his waist, giving the warrior an appearance of a conqueror of old, and unlike the boxy, toothed affairs that Sparatus had seen dangling from the waists of some of the other soldiers, this one was an ornate and detailed piece of master craftsmanship. Clearly this one was the leader of the group, and the one that he and his colleagues would be appealing to.

With a start, he realized that all were looking at him, waiting for him to introduce himself. "Councilor Sparatus, one of the leaders of the Turian Hierarchy," he said, trying his hardest not to sound like he had just been caught staring.

With a nod, Tevos turned and looked back at the giants. "Perhaps our guests," she suggested, emphasizing 'guests' to a subtle degree, "Would like to announce themselves now?"

There was a long moment of silence, broken only by the gentle thrumming that emanated from the armor worn by the soldiers, as the strangers simply stared back at them, the request seemingly having been incomprehensible to them. Then, just as suddenly as it started, the moment was broken by the one in the middle stirring and speaking in a grating tone that was no doubt mutilated by the helmet he wore. "Brother-Captain Nemros, of the Iron Sentinels Space Marine Chapter," he said in a deep voice.

"Epistolary Vargus," intoned the one in blue.

"Chaplain Xeras," said the last, the one adorned with death.

"Then allow me to be the first to officially welcome you to the Citadel, the beating heart of galactic civilization itself, Nemros, Vargus, and Xeras," Tevos said, a smile plastered on her face. Sparatus had seen that smile before, and knew there was no warmth or sincerity in it, only a desire to manipulate the individual on the receiving into her political schemes. He quietly shuddered at the gesture. Even though he was a politician himself, he liked to think he had a few lines that he refused to cross. Tevos, on the other hand, had absolutely no problem doing whatever it took to get what she wanted.

However, when he turned back to look at the giants, it was clear to him that Tevos was making absolutely no headway. While their faces were still concealed by their helmets, Sparatus had the impression that the Asari Councilor's gesture had all the impact of a pistol against a Reaper. None of them had relaxed their tense stances, and hands held tightly onto weapons, ready to be unleashed in a moment's notice.

"Perhaps we've started off on the wrong foot," Valern suggested from next to him, clearly having noted the same thing as he had. "Maybe you would like to remove your helmets? I assure you that there is no need for them here."

"You called us here to speak, xeno. Do so," the one that had named himself Nemros said curtly, making no move to act on the Salarian Councilor's suggestion.

Sparatus was taken aback by the sheer audacity it took to order the Citadel Council around, but was less outraged than he would have been had he not read Shepard's report prior to the meeting. Regardless, to be confronted with such blatant xenophobia was still a shock to him given the rather progressive galaxy that they inhabited.

"As you wish," Tevos said, smile noticeably faltering for a brief moment before reappearing once more. "We wish to formally extend the offer of an alliance against the Reaper threat to you, in the hopes of preserving all life in the galaxy against this menace."

"Agreed," came the response from Nemros, the one word answer in stark contrast with Tevos' flowery language.

"Excellent," came the voice of Udina from the other side of Tevos. "I hope you understand, of course, that we will need to look over your ship. The things we could learn from it to use against the Reapers-"

"Absolutely not," said Nemros, cutting off Udina midsentence. "The holy technology within belongs only to mankind and mankind alone. It is not for the likes of traitors and aliens to lay their hands on."

"You're human then?" Sparatus asked, pretending not to see the deep, ruddy red that was spreading across Udina's face at an alarming pace. "Where are you from? A lost colony perhaps? And what do you mean by traitors?"

Nemros, however, completely ignored his questions, instead fixing him and his fellow Councilors with a glare. Sparatus shuddered slightly beneath it, the unanswered questions that had just previously raced through his mind forgotten as he could almost physically feel the waves of revulsion that Nemros' posture was radiating.

"Know this: we may be your 'allies'," Nemros said, spitting out the last word as if it were a grievous insult to him, "But we are not your friends. We were created by the Immortal Emperor to be His shield against the perversion of the xeno and the perfidy of the traitor, and I will not see my Brothers and I fall into damnation any more than we already have."

A long silence permeated the Council Chambers after that, only eventually broken by Valern. "Created, you say?" he asked, almost timidly, as if he did not wish to incite another outburst. "Do you mean genetic engineering?"

"Yes," came Nemros' impatient response, as if the answer were patently obvious.

"Genetic engineering is illegal within Council space," Tevos said reproachfully, some confidence regained by the opening to rebuke the one that had spoken to her so.

Nemros fixed her with a stare that somehow managed to perfectly convey an attitude of seething contempt for her words. "Then it is a good thing, xeno," he said, tone thick with disdain, "That we do not obey your crude system of laws."

"Perhaps we should continue this at a later time?" Sparatus suggested, desperately attempting to regain some control over the situation.

"Agreed," said Valern immediately.

"Then this session of the Council is adjourned," Tevos said, turning to file out of the Council Chambers.

As he moved to follow her and Valern out, he noticed Udina signaling towards Nemros. However, he paid the gesture little mind, his mind focused on the words that had just been spoken and their implications. This debrief would be an interesting one indeed. No one had ever humiliated the Council as these Space Marines just had.

There would be consequences. It simply remained a matter of what form they would take.

* * *

Udina slipped into his office, the pounding rhythm of footfalls behind him indicating that Nemros still followed him. He had his doubts about the possibility of success of this maneuver after the revelations in the Council Chambers, but he was too far committed to back out now. Fat beads of sweat coalesced on the back of his neck as his mind pondered the consequences of failure.

"You said you had something you wished to say to me," came the Captain's grating tone from behind him as he reached down into his desk and pulled out a small communicator with trembling hands.

"Not me specifically," he clarified. "Someone else has taken a very specific interest in you, however."

Without another word, he activated the communicator. Placing it on his desk, he stepped back as Nemros looked at it curiously.

 _"_ _Captain Nemros,"_ came a baritone voice out from the device's speakers. _"It is a pity that I cannot meet with you in person, but I am certain that a man such as you understands that sometimes, precautions must be taken. For now, we must speak through the good Councilor, who helps me represent mankind's best interests."_

"Who is this?" Nemros asked with a guarded snarl.

 _"_ _My name has long since become irrelevant to the galaxy, but you may refer to me as the Illusive Man. I am the founder and leader of Cerberus."_

"Cerberus," Nemros sneered in recognition, "What do the likes of traitors want?"

 _"_ _Traitors, is it? Perhaps a clearer understanding is in order, Captain. Cerberus is traitors, yes, but not to the cause of humanity. Everything we do is in the name of the advancement of mankind, something that I have come to understand as a cause that you likewise champion."_

"How do you know this?"

 _"_ _I have eyes and ears everywhere, Captain,"_ came the simple response.

Nemros simply grunted in reply. "So what is it you seek from my Brothers and I?" he asked, guarded curiosity filling his voice.

 _"_ _It's simple, Captain. I seek to place mankind at its rightful place in the stars, and I need your help to do this."_

"How?"

 _"_ _You are aware of the Reapers?"_ the Illusive Man asked.

"Abominable Intelligences that seek to destroy humanity. We shall destroy them just as we destroyed countless other foes of mankind," Nemros said matter-of-factly.

 _"_ _But you see, that is where you're wrong Captain. Where you see a threat, I see an opportunity."_

"Explain," Nemros demanded. Udina leaned in surreptitiously, curious as to what the Illusive Man was truly planning, or at least what he claimed to be planning. He had long since learned not to try and match wits with the shadowy leader of Cerberus.

 _"_ _The Reapers represent an opportunity to advance our technology by controlling them, rather than simply destroying them. By utilizing the Reapers and with your technology, mankind would be unchallenged in its supremacy over the galaxy and all within it."_

The next few moments seemed to stretch on for eternity for Udina, as Nemros continued to stare at the communicator. He could feel fate balancing on a razor-thin edge, and this handful of seconds could, and would, change the course of the galaxy.

Finally, Nemros spoke, his tone increasingly angry as he did. "You seek to use us and arts forbidden by the Emperor over ten thousand years ago in a bid for domination over mankind?" he asked, voice thundering as he finished.

Udina felt a flare of panic rage within his stomach. Everything had suddenly taken a turn for the worse, and for the life of him, he could not figure out how.

 _"_ _Captain, please, you're being irrational here-"_ Whatever plea the Illusive Man had in mind to regain control of the situation was lost as Nemros continued on, heedless.

"There have been many who have thought that they could use the Emperor's Finest for their own ends, traitor. Ends that were much more subtle than yours. They failed then just as you have here."

 _"_ _So you would rather leave humanity at the mercy of the alien, Captain?"_ the Illusive Man asked in return.

"Make no mistake coward," Nemros said, "Mankind will rise. But it will not do so in a manner that results in it losing its very soul. We will fight these Abominable Intelligences, and we will fight the xeno after them as well, but we shall do so with our own strength, not with blasphemous machines and twisted sciences."

 _"_ _Is that your final decision Captain?"_ the Illusive Man asked coldly.

"Yes," Nemros said. Before Udina could even so much as blink, he found himself tumbling over backwards as the sword that had previously rested at the Captain's waist lashed out and pierced his heart. Darkness overtook his sight as death rushed in to claim his bleeding body, but before he drew his last breath he heard Nemros speak one more time.

"We are no one's puppet."

* * *

 **CONNECTION LOST.**

These two words stared unflinchingly back at him from their place on the Illusive Man's vid screen, taunting him with the missed opportunity that they represented.

 **CONNECTION LOST.**

How had he failed? It had seemed like such a simple matter. These so-called Space Marines were ripe for recruitment by his organization. They both wanted what was best for humanity after all, so why had they refused, and so violently at that?

 **CONNECTION LOST.**

Perhaps even worse than the rejection, the Illusive Man had seen Nemros slaughter the human Councilor before his link to Udina's room had been cut. Years upon years of careful manipulation and blackmail, combined with huge fortunes in bribes, all lost within a heartbeat. His most well-placed political mole eradicated, and now he had to adjust countless plans to match this new reality.

 **CONNECTION LOST.**

With a near-feral growl, he swiped at the screen, sending the two hateful words into the digital void. Bringing up another display, he contacted the Captain in charge of his contingency plan.

 _"_ _Yes sir?"_ came the reply seconds after he initiated to connection.

"There has been a change of plans Captain. Commence the operation, and proceed with extreme prejudice," he said.

 _"_ _Understood."_

With that, the link went dead and the Illusive Man sat back down into his chair. This plan had to work, or the likelihood of Cerberus obtaining this new technology would be reduced to near-nonexistence.

* * *

Within the void of space, engines flared as mass effect cores sprung to life. Ships previously hidden from sensor sweeps began angling themselves towards the massive space station that lay ahead of them. Aboard them, command decks buzzed with activity and troopers sprinted to prepare themselves for the upcoming combat that they would soon find themselves embroiled in.

They had their target, and they could not afford to fail.


	9. Heresy Begets Retribution

_Chapter 8: Heresy Begets Retribution_

"Councilor, please, I must insist…" the functionary pleaded to him for what felt like the hundredth time over the course of the last five minutes.

"No," Sparatus said in return, doing his best not to rub his forehead in exasperation. "I have already made my decision. I am staying here on the Citadel."

As the functionary turned and exited the panic room, Sparatus gave into the temptation and groaned in frustration. "Any luck?" he asked as he turned to look at Valern where he sat on the other side of the room.

"If you are referring to finding the Captain, then C-Sec and the STG have been tracking him for the past ten minutes, not long after he exited Udina's office. However, if you're referring to apprehending him, then I'm afraid you will have to settle for disappointment. The Executor is refusing to send any of his men after the Captain."

"How can he do that?" Tevos demanded indignantly from where she was pacing the length of the room. "It's his job to ensure the safety of the Citadel!"

"The good Executor has also seen the recordings from Tuchanka," the Salarian responded drily. "As a result, he's less than keen on sending his men on a suicide mission."

Sparatus felt his mandibles flare at the statement before finding himself agreeing with the Executor's judgment. Another way of dealing with Udina's murderer would present itself, they just needed to wait.

"A Councilor murdered in his office, and here we are, doing nothing," Tevos grumbled as she resumed her tense pacing. "It's unheard of."

"I'm more concerned with the why in this situation," Valern said as he looked back at his datapad.

"Of course you are," Sparatus muttered before speaking louder. "What do you mean?"

"The STG had been…observing Udina for some time now," Valern said in reply. "As a result, I suspect that Udina acted to convince the Captain to change his allegiance, to which the Captain responded violently, as we discovered."

"'Change his allegiance'?" Sparatus asked disbelievingly. "To what side? The Reapers? Are you suggesting that the human Councilor was indoctrinated? We would have noticed if he had been!"

"No," Valern said firmly. "Not the Reapers. Cerberus."

Sparatus stopped himself before he could tell Valern how ridiculous he was sounding right now. Sure, Udina could be abrasive and self-serving at times, but at the end of the day he was still dedicated to humanity. But could the occupation of his homeworld have pushed him over the edge to form a desperate alliance with the shadowy organization?

"It's plausible," he said slowly, still trying to work out his line of reasoning in his head. "Cerberus is a pro-human movement, and we all saw how the Captain reacted to us. But if these Space Marines are also pro-human, vehemently so given how they acted, why would he kill Udina?"

"I don't know Sparatus," Valern confessed as he finally looked up from his datapad to look his Turian counterpart in the eye. "The only person who can tell us that is currently making his way back towards the landing pad that he arrived on, along with his men."

Silence permeated the room as they considered the prospect of one of their fellows being a traitor, and the new possibilities that would be presented by such potential reality.

Tevos was the first to speak. "We could use this to our advantage," she said. "Even if Udina truly was a Cerberus agent, we can still force the Marines to give up parts of their technology as a punishment for killing a Councilor. No one need know the whole truth of the affair."

"Devious, Tevos," Valern said, his tone a mixture of wariness and praise. "We would still need to bring the Captain back here to present our demands, however."

"Could we use the CDF to prevent their departure?" Sparatus asked.

Tevos shook her head in the negative. "Udina ordered the majority of it, including the _Destiny Ascension_ , away towards the relay. He claimed that there was the potential for a Reaper incursion. All that remains around the Citadel is only a token force, and it would take hours for the ships to return even if we recalled them now."

"We could close the arms," Valern mused. "Declare a state of emergency and keep them locked in until the fleet returns."

"You're assuming that they'll be so courteous as to remain still long enough for the arms to close, Valern," Sparatus said. "They'd also most likely interpret that as an act of aggression. No, we're not closing the arms."

"Then what would you suggest Sparatus?" the Salarian asked in exasperation. "I fail to see you offering up any suggestions here."

"I don't know Valern," he snapped in return. "All I can say is that what you're suggesting is simply unfeasible."

Before Valern could retort, a functionary burst through the door to the panic, barely avoiding bashing his head on the still-opening metal slabs as he did.

"What is it now Gratius?" he snarled, his frustration at the interruption, at Valern, at the Space Marine Captain, and at the state of the entire galaxy all bubbling up and over at the same time.

"Councilor," Gratius gasped even as he fought to regain some semblance of breath in his lungs. "Long-range scanners picked up a number of unidentified vessels heading towards the Citadel right before they started going haywire. Their profiles don't match anything we've seen before."

The trio of politicians turned and looked at each other for one long moment. "It looks like you were correct then Valern," Tevos said, breaking the silence.

"And I wish for once that I wasn't," Valern said in reply.

* * *

"Shipmaster!" came the shout from one of the command deck's orderlies, Carvan Hetimal if Davriel remembered correctly.

"What?" he asked irritably in reply. This xeno station was wearing on his nerves and faith. Constant watching for treachery that was either not forthcoming or so well-hidden that he was incapable of seeing, combined with the fact that this so-called "Citadel" was the heart of a galaxy-wide xenos dominion ground on him mentally, and part of him wished that the negotiations between the Captain and their leaders would fail so that he could tear it apart with a command. Unfortunately, no such order had visited his ears, and so he sat and watched some more.

"Auspex scans are showing a number of vessels on a course towards us and the station, counting sixteen in total," Carvan said as he continued to stare at his station, eyes never leaving the instrument board.

"An ambush?" he asked, not even bothering to hide his eagerness at the notion.

"Perhaps not lord," was the reply. "Signatures don't match the known xeno ship types. If anything, they resemble the ones we saw above Benning."

Davriel scowled fiercely at the revelation. Cerberus then. Fighting fellow humans that were not aligned with the Great Enemy was something he hated. Too many moral ambiguities present for his taste. Fighting fellow humans above an alien-controlled space station?

The Shipmaster shook his head at the thoughts. Humans they might be, but he had read the reports that Nemros had sent him from the Apothecarium. Tech-heresy was something he poorly understood at the best of times, but still abhorred. If these traitors had given themselves up unto machines derived from Abominable Intelligences, then he would destroy them without mercy.

"Time until they're in range?" he asked, banishing his doubts from his mind. Hesitation had no place within a servant of the Emperor.

"Five minutes lord," said another orderly, this one from a recessed alcove on the far left side of the deck. "Possibly seven or eight if they continue to hide. The enemy fleet is using the arms of the station to cover their approach, the cowards."

"Lord, three of the vessels are breaking off their approach vector and moving towards the station ring. The rest are continuing towards us," Carvan added to his fellow orderly's report.

Davriel simply grunted in response. A curious tactic. Could Cerberus be trying to capture the station for themselves, or did they have another motive in mind? He shook his head, disregarding the thought. What mattered was the upcoming battle. This galaxy needed to learn the no one dared to strike at the Emperor's Adeptus Astartes with impunity. "Bring us to combat readiness state," he said as he depressed a series of runes that were placed within the arms of his throne.

"Captain Nemros," he spoke into the vox set embedded within the command throne, even as the command deck came to life around him as orderlies and officers alike began to prepare to offer battle.

 _"_ _What is it Shipmaster?"_ came the mechanical tones of the Captain a few seconds later.

"Cerberus vessels inbound to both the _Shadow_ and the xeno station. I am preparing to engage the majority, but that will mean that you will be on your own down there," he reported. Humming cables and pulsing machinery began to detach from the command throne and interface with ports embedded within his back, ready to relay his commands to the crew with naught more than a thought.

 _"_ _Very well Shipmaster. I'm having Thunderhawk One return to the ship. Tell Devastator Squad Epsilon and Squadron Theta to embark for the station and meet at my position."_

"Very good Captain," Davriel said before terminating the link and sending the appropriate commands to the earmarked Space Marines. Turning his gaze back towards the viewport and the near-invisible dots that made up the Cerberus fleet, he allowed a small smile to split his face at the thought of the upcoming battle. It only been a few days since the _Shadow_ had last seen combat, but to him, it felt like a thousand years.

"Void shields to sixty percent, engines to flank speed," he ordered, feeling the usually-placid machine spirit that dwelled within the _Shadow_ eagerly rousing for war at his words. Whatever frustration he had felt mere minutes before had disappeared. This galaxy would learn that they were not its playthings.

* * *

"You are certain?" Xeras asked him, the roar of Thunderhawk One's mighty engines fading as it made its way back towards the _Duty's Shadow_ , leaving the pair of them alone on the landing pad while Vargus and Thram's squad kept a watch on the nervous xenos standing a ways off.

"I am confident of it Brother," Nemros said in response. "The way he spoke gave it away. The absolute confidence which filled him when he described to me his plans regarding the Abominable Intelligences that run amok in this galaxy… he was little more than a glorified heretek, determined to exploit forbidden technology for his own ends."

"Say no more Captain," Xeras said, holding up one massive hand as he did. "Though I find myself grievously disappointed. Not in your actions, but in his. Had this Illusive Man not chosen to walk the path that he has, he could have been a powerful ally in our crusade. Now we find ourselves truly alone in this heretical galaxy."

"Indeed," he sighed. "Now it seems that he is determined to claim what he believes is his regardless, if the timing of this attack is any indicator."

"Or he could have hoped to utilize us as another tool with which to take over this station," the Fifth Company's Chaplain suggested, gesturing towards the buildings that towered above them.

"Perhaps," Nemros assented. "Nevertheless, we shall break them as we broke them on Benning."

"Search and destroy, Captain?" Vargus asked as he left his position to make his way over to join the two of them.

"Indeed, Davriel will destroy the ships in orbit, while we deal with the forces that they land here. Afterwards, I will have the Shipmaster have the rest of our Brothers board the remaining ships so that Manswell can retrieve whatever he can from their cogitators."

A rumble of agreement erupted from Xeras. "This battle will allow our Brothers to adjust to how warfare is truly fought here as well. Benning and Tuchanka were no challenge to them, and I fear that they may become overconfident, fatally so perhaps."

"We will be on our own," Vargus concurred. "Outnumbered by huge margins with the enemy aiming for us specifically. It will be reminiscent of our battles against the mortal servants of the Primordial Annihilator."

"You do not think these xenos will be of any use in this Vargus?" Nemros asked, even though he silently agreed with the Epistolary's assessment.

"I do not underestimate them, if that is what you are asking Brother. But all that I saw here were off duty soldiers and the equivalent of the Arbites. Even less so, given the primitive state of their equipment. Benning was no test of our skill, but even unprepared Cerberus was still more dangerous than the inhabitants of this station will ever be."

 _"_ _Captain, Thunderhawk One is returning to the station. The three Cerberus vessels are taking up positions for deployment as well, and we have engaged the rest,"_ came the voice of Davriel over their vox frequency. Vargus and Xeras took this as their cue to rejoin Sergeant Thram and his squad, leaving Nemros alone.

"Your impressions so far Shipmaster?" Nemros asked even as his augmented hearing, enhanced further by the sensor suite embedded within his helmet, picked up the faint whining of Thunderhawk One's engines in the distance.

 _"_ _They fight like Orks, crudely and single-mindedly, and are even more primitive than the greenskins. They are no match for the_ Shadow _'s weaponry, and their cannons barely scratch our void shields."_

"Excellent Shipmaster," he said as he watched a faint flare of light erupt into the void of space far beyond the remote bulk of the _Shadow_ , indicating that Davriel had cleansed the galaxy of another group of traitors. "Keep up the assault, leave none alive."

With that he closed the vox channel, leaving him with a brief moment with which to contemplate that fleeting flash of light. Someday soon, he swore, there would be a great deal more of those. Turning away from the sight, he Nemros could see gunships and various other craft bearing the insignia of Cerberus enter the atmosphere of the station and begin making their way towards their position. He opened another vox channel to his Brothers that were disembarking from Thunderhawk One and waiting at the opposite end of the landing platform, watching a pair of bulky machines detach from the gunship as he did.

"Brothers, the time for retribution is at hand. Let us show these traitors what it truly means to rouse the implacable wrath of the Emperor!"

* * *

If Carl Seman had still been fully capable of acknowledging the emotion, he would have sworn in frustration as the Kodiak he and his squad were sitting in rocked and jostled about. Had it not been for the seat harness restraining him, he was certain he would have been strewn apart the interior of the craft in numerous broken pieces by this point.

But he could not remember the last time that he had felt true emotion. Rogue thoughts snuck through his mind, silently attempting to harken back to days that seemed to be covered in a perpetual heavy fog, before being inevitably discovered and squashed by the alien circuitry that comprised most of his brain these days. The last thing he could faintly remember now was a decision – was it one that he had made, or had somebody else? – of going to Sanctuary, and after that, waking up in a Cerberus facility. Ever since then his life had consisted of simply obeying orders. Obeying was easy. Painless. Thinking was resistance. The voices did not like him thinking. Yet some tiny fraction of him persisted.

"Listen up," came the flat tone of his squad's Centurion. Carl looked over at the man sitting next to him, as did the rest of his squad. The Centurion had never mentioned his name – did he even remember it? Did anyone else remember theirs?

Another flash of disapproval. Another burst of pain. But Carl did his best to ignore the sensation, used to such things by this point as he was.

"Our fighters have drawn off their gunships for now, and the admiral wants us to board that ship. The objective is to land in the designated hangar and make our way to the bridge, neutralize any resistance on the way. Intelligence claims that there's only a handful of those Marines on the ship, so we should be able to overwhelm them without too much trouble. Keep your damn heads down and on your shoulders, and you'll be fine," the Centurion continued, ignorant to Carl's thoughts.

"Yes sir," Carl and the other troopers responded in unison, their voices just as monotone as the Centurion's, before the Kodiak was thrown around once more.

 _"_ _Fucking hell,"_ came the voice of the pilot over the com network, _"There point defenses are murder. We just lost eighth and twenty-second squads!"_

"Just get us on that ship," came the voice of the Centurion in reply, as if the news of the slaughter was no more exciting to him than retelling what he had had for breakfast that day.

 _"_ _Yes sir."_

Seconds ticked past, turning into minutes as the pilot twisted and turned the Kodiak, desperately evading as best as he could, before the UT-47 slammed violently into the hangar of the ship, all thoughts of a graceful landing thrown to the wind in the name of survival. Carl ripped the safety harness off, ignoring the handful of forms that remained motionless in their seats as he did. The only thing that mattered now was surviving, and surviving meant making his way out of the twisted wreck that the Kodiak had been reduced to.

"Go, go!" shouted the Centurion, sending a canister of smoke arcing out of the UT-47's door to cover their exit.

Carl slammed himself into the door, which had been partially torn off in the landing, leaving just enough space for one man to slip out through at a time. Squeezing his bulky trooper armor into the gap, he emerged in time to see the man in front of him collapse to his knees, grasping at his neck. Reaching out, he threw the man to the side, revealing a charred and cauterized hole where the other trooper's throat had been only moments ago. Carl kept moving on, heading towards what little cover was available inside the vast space. There was nothing else he could do for the man, save perhaps put him out of his misery.

To his left, another trooper's knee exploded in a cloud of crimson, sending the man tumbling to the ground with a scream of pain. A flash of red followed a second later, lancing through his helmet and silencing him forever. In retaliation, Carl raised his Mattock and snapped off a pair of rounds towards the direction from which the shot had come from before diving down beneath an abandoned metal crate.

Peering around the edge of the crate, he was shocked to see just who was shooting at him. These were no giants with guns capable of tearing through even the thickest of armor with ease. The distant forms sending red arcs of light speeding his and his comrades' direction appeared to be nothing more than normal, unaugmented humans. Raising his rifle to his shoulder once more and taking careful aim, he fired again, this time sending one of the humans to the ground in a spray of red blood.

All around him, Carl's fellow troopers and their Centurions were doing likewise. Emboldened by the lack of any of the massive soldiers about which they had heard so many horror stories from the few survivors from Benning amongst their ranks, they sent a hail of mass accelerator rounds speeding across the hangar, heedless of the casualties they suffered in response for their impudence. After a few minutes, the remaining defenders fell back from the hangar, leaving a score of their own behind, while in return the remaining Cerberus troopers were forced to step over dozens of their own in order to reach the exit that their enemies had used.

"What the hell kind of weapons were those?" a trooper to the right of Carl asked. Francis, if he remembered correctly.

"Unknown," came the response of the Centurion. He had been one of the few squad leaders to survive the firefight, and a faint part of Carl feared how the rest of them would fare if they still had numerous kilometers to go in order to reach their objectives.

"Huh," another trooper muttered as he turned over one of the corpses. "Just normal humans," he said, confirming Carl's earlier supposition. "Think this is what they look like outside of their armor?"

"Doesn't matter," Carl said. "If so, then I'm just thankful they weren't in their suits."

"Enough," said the Centurion curtly. "Squads three, nine, and eleven on me. We're pushing towards the bridge. Squads two, six, seven, and seventeen, follow mission parameters. Head for engineering. The rest of you stay here, fix up what Kodiaks you can."

"Sir!" came the reply. Carl, however, bent over to push one of the corpses away from a boxy object. As he picked it up, a cursory glance revealed that it was a weapon of some sort, given the trigger mechanism. However, there was no port to load thermal clips, instead featuring a square magazine on the underside, and a two headed eagle was stamped on the side of the gun. A jolt of pain coursed through his mind, driving the curiosity out, and with a shrug, he decided to drop his Mattock and keep the new weapon. Given how tough these Marines had proven themselves on Benning, Carl figured any additional firepower would be welcomed.

Looking around, he could see the others doing the same, and the Centurion sent a nod his direction. "Move out!" the Centurion bellowed before heading towards the exit.

As the squads made their way into the twisting, labyrinthine interior of the ship, Carl could not shake the sinking feeling that they were all marching into the depths of hell itself.

* * *

The command throne quivered and shook as the _Duty_ lashed outwards with a spear of blindingly-white plasma. Davriel watched impassively as the strike sped through the void and plowed through one of the remaining Cerberus vessels, causing it to disappear in a rapidly-expanding cloud of debris and fire.

"Target destroyed Shipmaster," came the needless report from one of the orderlies. "Plasma projectors recharging, estimated time to firing is one minute. Void shields steady at fifty-five percent."

"Bring our portside macro-cannon batteries to bear on the Cerberus vessel thirty-six thousand meters away," he ordered in response. "Don't let them launch any more boarders. Carvan, status on those Cerberus fighters?"

"Thunderhawks Two and Three reporting that they've destroyed the majority of them, and are mopping up what little is left Shipmaster," Carvan said. "Counting twelve remaining. In addition, Thunderhawk One is one minute out, moving to assist."

"Tell them to press the assault. Once Thunderhawk One is back, have them shift over to taking out the smaller ships."

"Yes Shipmaster."

Davriel scowled as he returned his gaze towards the viewport. These Cerberus ships were pathetic, no match for the might of the Imperium, but there were still plenty of them to go around. A small pulse from the command throne alerted him that the starboard side thrusters had fired, bringing the _Duty_ around to bear on the distant enemy ships.

"Sergeants Masro and Hensil, report. Status of the boarders?" he spoke into the vox built into the command throne. Beneath him, the _Duty_ rumbled as it roared its fury at the distant Cerberus vessel, the massive shells tearing through it with contemptuous ease. The handful of transports that had managed to board the _Duty_ through a mixture of sheer numbers and luck were now without a carrier to return to.

 _"_ _Masro here. The group headed for the Warp drive has been eliminated. Brother Manswell is looping their vox communications. No sign that their elimination has been detected so far. Heading for the hangar."_

 _"_ _Hensil here. Hangar has been secured, and we are moving to intercept the group headed for the bridge. Stand by."_

"Understood, Shipmaster out," Davriel said before closing the links, returning his attention to the battle raging in the void in time to see a report appear on the throne informing that the last of the Cerberus fighters had just been destroyed. A small smirk spread across his face at the news. As the plasma projectors roared to life and lanced outwards once more, destroying another pair of Cerberus ships, he was content in the fact that for the first time since coming to this dysfunctional universe, he was in command of the situation once more.

"In the name of the Emperor, finish them off!" he roared, his voice echoing throughout the command deck.

* * *

The deck rumbled beneath Carl's feet once more, an ominous signal that heralded another panicky report from the ship captains that dueled the metal behemoth whose halls they currently stalked, though he could not shake the feeling that it was they who they ones being stalked instead. Double headed eagles, the very same as the one on his appropriated weapon, glared down from their perches upon the thick metal walls, silently passing their condemnations of the intruders.

The Centurion snarled in frustration ahead of them. Carl understood his anger, feeling a smoldering ember of it welling up within him. All of their interior layout maps, based upon Alliance ship designs, had proven worse than useless not long after they had delved into the depths of the ship. Nothing made sense in here. Hallways randomly branched off into absolute blackness, the accumulated dust and filth stain the floors of such corridors showcasing a neglect that had lasted for years at the very least. Idly, as they passed through another junction, Carl wondered if he and his cohorts were the first to traverse this area since the ship's construction.

"Hold up," the Centurion said as he came to a sudden halt in the middle of a particularly long hallway. "Jameson, status report," he demanded into his comm unit.

Only static answered him, taunting all who heard it with its ceaseless cackle.

"Shit," said one of the troopers. Carl grunted in agreement, watching as the Centurion tried hailing the squads that had been left behind with the Kodiaks, only to be met with the same reply.

"Seman, take two men and head back for the hangar. It's possible that this ship is simply jamming communications," the Centurion ordered. "Make sure that we can pull back if we need to, then report in."

"Yes sir," he said, before motion towards the two troopers nearest to follow him back through the path that they had just traversed.

They had not gone far before the Centurion's voice broke through their comm channels, screaming in a mixture of pain, desperation, and fear. Before any of them could respond, however, the channel abruptly closed, leaving them alone once more.

"Now what?" one of the other troopers asked as he glanced around, his every motion betraying the mounting panic that he was undoubtedly feeling. Carl did not blame him, he felt the same as well, despite the surges of pain that his implants were sending out in a crude attempt to drown the cowardly emotion out.

"We go back," he grunted, hefting his stolen weapon as he turned around to face the corridor that they had just traversed.

"That's suicide," noted the other trooper mechanically, even as he turned as well. None of them were capable of disobeying their superiors, and at that point, Carl was their superior. They would follow him no matter what.

"Hangar's probably lost," Carl noted dispassionately as he began to run back towards where they had departed from the others. "We can either die alone in these corridors or have a chance fighting with the others."

The other troopers simply grunted in response, not wasting their breath with verbal acknowledgements, the sound of gunfire and screams growing louder with every step they took. Turning around a corner, they were greeted with the sight of a charnel house.

Massive figures clad in armor stalked the room, stout, fat-barreled guns bellowing as they massacred what few Cerberus troopers were still alive. Behind them stood more of the regular-sized humans that they had encountered in the hangar, which struck him as odd. Why were these ones not in their armor?

He pushed aside the thought as he ducked behind the corner, barely evading a pair of red bolts that slammed into the wall, where they sizzled angrily at having been denied their prey. Flicking what he had figured out to be the safety on his procured weapon, Carl and his fellow troopers poked around the corner and opened up on the giant figure that was barreling down upon them with terrifying speed.

The Mattocks utilized by the other troopers had a negligible effect upon the armor that the enemy soldier was wearing, while his weapon fared only slightly better. Carl could faintly see black scorch marks blossoming wherever his bolts of light struck, though the soldier seemed unfazed by his foe's best efforts to bring him down.

Time seemed to slow down for Carl as the soldier, not even bothering to stop, brought up a weapon from beneath which sprouted a small black canister that was denoted with a skull. A tiny flame below the muzzle of the gun winked and danced evilly, a seemingly innocuous sight that signaled impending doom for him and all his kind.

The sight of a rapidly-expanding cloud of flame belching forwards from the weapon was the last thing Carl Seman saw before his eyes liquefied in their sockets.

* * *

 _"_ _Brother-Captain, the Cerberus fleet is nothing more than clouds of debris, and your Brothers are reporting that the_ Duty _has been cleansed,"_ came the report from the Shipmaster, barely audible over the sound of Epsilon Squad's concentrated heavy bolter fire scything through flesh, armor, and cover alike.

"Good," Nemros grunted as he changed his weapon's firing settings. Leaning out of cover, he curled his finger around the trigger, letting the gun whine for a short second before it let loose with a blindly white burst of plasma at one of the few remaining exoskeletons. He savored the sight of the superheated ball of gases slamming into one of the machine's legs, reducing it to slag and sending the entire thing tumbling over backwards.

He ducked back behind the shattered wall of the ruined storefront that he and his Brothers had chosen to fortify, a hail of shots chasing him back in. While Nemros knew that the weapons utilized by these peoples were ineffective against their armor, power armor still had its vulnerable spots in its joints. There was no sense in pushing their luck and risk being killed by an errant shot, after all. Such tactics were best left to Chapters like the Red Scorpions.

"Tell my Brothers that as soon as Theta Squadron reports that the ring is clear enough, they are to embark on the Thunderhawks and begin clearing Cerberus off of the station. Have Omicron Squad board one of the remaining vessels, then eliminate the other two at your discretion Shipmaster," he continued as he switched back to bolter rounds. He momentarily rued wasting his single plasma shot as he swapped his empty clip out for a new one, before leaning out again to catch one of the Cerberus troopers with a short burst. Even as the man exploded in a cloud of viscera from the detonation of the mass-reactive shells, there still remained dozens of his ilk out there, with more rushing to join them by the minute.

Clearly, the Illusive Man had been somewhat displeased by his show in the Councilor's office.

 _"_ _Understood Captain, your orders have been relayed and the_ Duty _is repositioning for boarding torpedo launch. Davriel out."_

The _click_ signifying the closing of the vox channel was oddly satisfying to Nemros. Now all that remained for him to do was wait and kill as many of these traitorous scum as he could.

* * *

Above the action, a figure waited, cloaked in the shadows cast by the Citadel's superstructure as he watched the carnage unfold below him.

Capture. That had been the order straight from the Illusive Man himself. Capture the one known as Brother-Captain Nemros for interrogation, and dispose of the rest. For once, he was inclined to carry out the order, given how he had watched the man act inside the Council Chambers. Sure, the traitor had aligned himself with aliens, and had proceeded to kill Councilor Udina, but the man had stood against the demands of those filthy creatures, and had refused to submit himself to their will. He could respect that. It was more than anyone else outside of Cerberus was doing these days.

If only for that reason, Kai Leng decided, he would capture this Nemros. A slow, excruciating interrogation under his watch would be the man's punishment and atonement for defying Cerberus' push for the advancement of humanity.

All he had to do was wait for the right moment to strike.


	10. Tempest

_A/N: After numerous slacking offs and rewrites, the next chapter finally emerges from the depths of the Warp._

 _Chapter 9: Tempest_

The wind howled and shrieked as the bulky machine ripped through the air, threatening to drown out the throaty roar that it emitted as it whipped past a flaming Cerberus gunship and dove between a pair of buildings that stretched upwards, reaching for the artificial sky. Twisting around with an agility that belied its form, the machine sped back out into the open sky where it rejoined another machine that was both similar yet different.

The rectangular shape of the Land Speeder Tornado was entirely out of place here in this forest of sleek lines and smooth curves, but to Sergeant Kalios only the blessed machine thrumming beneath him was natural. The whipping wind and the enthusiasm of the machine spirit to respond to his every input had been denied to him for far too long, and he was eager to once more wage war in the Emperor's name. Some of his Brothers occasionally joked that the Apothecaries must have mistakenly implanted him with the gene-seed of the White Scars rather than that of their own Primarch given his enthusiasm for his Land Speeder, and Kalios found it hard to disagree with them. He could have been promoted to a Tactical Marine over a century ago, but he had chosen to remain as an Assault Marine Sergeant instead. _This_ was what he had been made for, and _this_ was where he excelled. The rush of adrenaline and the roar of the machine spirit that accompanied every precise movement were the only rewards he desired for his service.

 _"_ _Brother-Sergeant,"_ came the voice of Brother Mavril from where he sat in the Typhoon-variant Land Speeder that had just fallen into formation alongside him, _"Auspex scans show that the majority of the Cerberus aircraft in this section of the station have either been destroyed or fallen back. However, a small group have clustered over what appears to be a Medicae post and are offloading troops there. Your orders?"_

"Wipe them all out and mark the Medicae's location for our Brothers. No doubt they seek to turn it into a strongpoint against us."

 _"_ _Understood. Moving to attack now."_

Mavril's Speeder shot past as it rapidly accelerated to assault speed, and ceramite-clad fingers quickly manipulated interfaces in order to keep pace. Kalios' initial skirmishes with the Cerberus gunships over Benning had allowed him to deduce that they were more akin to their Land Speeders, albeit slower and less heavily armed, rather than true interceptors like the Lightning fighter utilized by the Imperial Navy or the few remaining Great Crusade-era Xiphon-pattern interceptors still flown by the First Founding Chapters. Since then, he and Mavril had quickly taken to utilizing all the superior maneuverability granted to them by their machines to outflank and destroy dozens of craft.

The pair of anti-grav vehicles roared through the artificial sky at a rate that left the ground beneath them a near-indistinguishable blur to mortal eyes. Even with his enhanced vision and the machine spirit of the Land Speeder updating his helmet's autosenses with its auspex scans, Kalios could only barely make out a passing glimpse of raging firefights between the inhabitants of the station and the invading Cerberus forces. Even as his body almost subconsciously adjusted the controls as needed, his mind pondered the implications that the attack carried.

Back on Benning, the Brother-Captain had relayed to him and his Brothers that the so-called Systems Alliance that held sway in this galaxy considered Cerberus to be a minor rogue faction, incapable of seriously challenging any of the major factions in power. Yet this assault was clearly anything but a minor nuisance by an alleged small band of renegades. One did not attack the center of a galactic government without having the significant amount of resources required to ensure the attack's success. To do otherwise was pure foolishness. This was the handiwork of a widespread organization with tens, if not hundreds, of thousands of hands to call upon.

Had the Alliance lied to the Brother-Captain? If so, then why? And what else could they be hiding?

Up ahead, the missile launchers mounted onto the back of Brother Mavril's Typhoon roared as a pair of guided munitions leapt forwards from their launcher, spiraling towards a Cerberus gunship that desperately tried to evade the impending doom that came streaking towards it. However, the machine spirits guiding the targeting systems of the missiles aimed true, and the gunship dissolved in a cloud of flame and debris. Normally such a feat would have been impossible, as the Typhoon variant currently only carried anti-personnel missiles, nigh useless against armored vehicles. However, the shielding utilized by the inhabitants of this galaxy proved insufficient in regards to a Space Marine arsenal, and the light armor that lay beneath likewise stood no chance. Kalios had been relieved to discover that this was the case, as a large number of the krak missiles that were intended for use by the Typhoon had been expended back on Arathan Prime, either softening up entrenched heretic positions or destroying Traitor Guard armor units. What little remained would have to be carefully rationed.

Over on his right in the gunner seat, Brother Arafel took aim with his pintle-mounted heavy bolter and sent a torrent of shells into the side of a transport, leaving it smoking as it limped back towards the relative safety that space provided. For his part, Kalios was not idle, thumbing the activation rune for the underslung assault cannon. With it, he tore through another gunship and the transport that hid behind it, the latter craft no doubt having desperately hoped to use its slightly better armored kin as a shield while it unloaded as many troopers as it could onto the roof of the Medicae. For its troubles it was sent crashing down onto the structure, crushing many of the troopers it had just unloaded and leaving a gaping hole in the roof.

All of this took place within the span of seven seconds, and while the Cerberus pilots were still scrambling to react, Kalios and Mavril had already blown past them and were doubling back for another pass.

 _"_ _Excellent shooting Brother-Sergeant,"_ came the voice of Mavril over the vox as Kalios guided the Land Speeder up and around a towering hab unit.

"As was yours Brother," he replied. "Now let us finish this."

Kalios brought his machine around the hab spire and sent it diving downwards towards the few remaining Cerberus aircraft, the Land Speeder's auspex showing him that Mavril was following closely behind. The underslung assault cannon spat a hail of death at a gunship, tearing off its tail section and sending it plummeting downwards in a spiral of smoke and flame. The Cerberus pilots did their best to return fire, hoping in vain to bring down the Astartes craft, their mass accelerated rounds sparking off the hulls of the Land Speeders even as they were torn to shreds in turn. A pair of missiles streaked past him and impacted solidly upon the cockpit of a transport that had been attempting to use its forward-facing cannons, reducing its fore to molten slag.

As Kalios ripped past the Medicae and pulled back on the controls to avoid crashing into another hab spire, a blip from the auspex notified him that Mavril had just eliminated the last gunship, leaving the skies clear for their Brothers to land on this section of the xenos station.

"Sergeant Kalios to _Duty's Shadow_ ," he spoke into the vox embedded within his helmet, "you are clear to proceed with the assault. Show them the consequences of their perfidy Brothers!"

With that, he closed the link and pinged Mavril to follow him as he brought his Speeder around towards the last arm of the station that needed cleansing. His Brothers were now capable of assaulting without fear of any aerial retribution, but his task was not yet complete.

And he would not rest until he saw this blight wiped from the face of the galaxy.

* * *

Klivak quietly grunted as the boarding torpedo shook, jostling him inside of his harness as it did. He had questioned the wisdom of this action when Nemros' orders had been relayed to him and his Brothers by the Shipmaster, but he had complied after a few moments. In this new galaxy, loyalty and obedience were all that kept their tenuous brotherhood intact, and he would not be the one to shatter their bonds.

"Confirmed," came the mechanical tones of the Company's Techmarine from behind him. "The _Duty_ is uploading the layout of the ship we have been ordered to board, designation _Vesuvius_ , now."

A rune suddenly appeared flashing on Klivak's visor before it expanding, showing a grid overlay and the dimensions of the cruiser that they had been ordered to board. Klivak chuckled softly at the thought as numbers appeared. Cruiser. This ship was only around six hundred meters long, compared to the ships of the Imperial Navy which reached up to nearly five kilometers in the case of the _Lunar_ -class.

"Your orders Brother Manswell?" said one of the Marines near the back of the torpedo.

"Brothers Klivak and Yonthul will accompany me to the bridge. You and your Brothers will make your way to the ship's Enginarium, in order to forestall any sabotage attempts."

Klivak sent a ping of acknowledgement even as a countdown flashed on his visor, warning him of the torpedo's imminent contact with the hostile ship. Before it reached zero, however, he opened up his vox in order to speak.

"Remember Brothers, the eyes of the Emperor and the expectations of the Chapter are upon us," he said as the torpedo shook violently as the multi-meltas attached to its sides fired, reducing the armor plating of the starship to molten slag that was then churned through by the massive boarding drill attached to the front of the torpedo. "We cannot fail."

"For the Emperor!" shouted the other Marines, with the notable exception of Brother Manswell, who simply hefted his ornate two-handed power axe. Klivak scowled at that, even though he understood why. As a member of the Adeptus Mechanicus, Manswell's loyalties lay first with the Machine God and with the Omnissiah, as the techpriests of the Red Planet called the Emperor, second.

It had never sat well with him in the slightest. A man could not serve two masters, for inevitably loyalty would not survive the resulting clash of interests. However, Nemros had constantly waved off his concerns every time he had presented them to the Captain, claiming that such had always been the case, even before the Emperor had unified Holy Terra over ten thousand years ago, and would most likely continue to be the case until mankind stood ascendant over the stars once more.

Still, Manswell was his Brother. That mattered for something. So he had swallowed his protests and kept his peace, though he had never been able to fully rid himself of his suspicions.

The machine spirits that controlled the forward hatch groaned and hissed in protestation as they raised the boarding drill up, drawing him away from his musings and directing his vision toward the insides of the starship they had boarded. The first thought to cross his mind was how bright the interior lighting was compared to that of the _Shadow_. The second was that there was a conspicuous lack of any resistance to their intrusion. Did Cerberus not believe in defending their own ships?

Their harnesses detached, dropping them the short distance to the floor of the torpedo with a loud _clang._ The trio of power armor-clad Marines trudged past them as Manswell briefly sifted through some last second data that had been uploaded from the _Shadow_ , wielding a variety of bolters, chainswords, and combat shields as they did. A brutal mixture of weapons, but then, boarding was a brutal, messy business, even for those who distinguished themselves enough to be granted Terminator honors. The lifespan of a boarder was quick and violent, even going by the standards of an Astartes.

"Let us move," buzzed Manswell as he exited out the torpedo after the other Marines, the blood red color scheme of his armor distinctly out of place in the sterile white corridor that they now found themselves in. Klivak and Yonthul poured out of the tube after him, their bulky frames brushing up against the ceiling.

Manswell led them deeper into the ship, guiding them through passageways that were eerily devoid of any defenders. Occasionally they would stumble across a lone crewmember or two, who would then be summarily be dispatched, but overall Klivak noted an astonishing lack of life aboard this ship. Perhaps the rumors of shipboard Abominable Intelligences that had spread throughout the Company after the battle on Tuchanka were more truthful than he had initially given them credit. A scowl took up residence on his lips at that thought even as Manswell warned them that the bridge was on the other side of the door that they now stood in front of.

"Our Brothers have secured the Enginarium, now we must do likewise with the bridge," the Techmarine said. "Be careful with your blows, I do not wish for us to accidently damage any of the cogitators and deprive the Captain of any potential intelligence."

"Then we should also endeavor to capture the Shipmaster," Yonthul grunted. "He may be able to tell us far more than a simple data log."

"The Captain's orders mentioned nothing about captives," Klivak said. "I personally wish to have nothing more to do with these traitors beyond simply killing them."

That, he mused, and not having to endure Slenarr's angry rantings should this captive fail to be as unproductive as the last one that they had secured for him. There was zealous, and then there was Slenarr.

"Brother Yonthul raises a fair point," sighed Manswell, even though it was clear that he shared Klivak's own opinion on the matter. "Take him alive. Preferably intact as well."

With that, the Techmarine turned back towards the door, which, according to the chronometer installed in his visor display, remained shut for less than two-fifths of a second, down from the three quarters of a second that it had initially taken Manswell when they had first boarded. The member of the Martian priesthood was nothing if not efficient at adaptation, Klivak thought idly even as the doors open to a hail of mass accelerator fire.

Yonthul rushed past him, storm shield raised and bellowing a war cry as he did, no doubt confident that his armor would keep him safe. Sparks spring to life as rounds impacted to no avail on his shield, while Klivak moved to follow the other Terminator in.

The first thing that he noticed was how small the command deck was when compared to the _Shadow_ 's. It briefly struck him as an odd thing to notice, as compared to, perhaps, the number and location of the Cerberus personnel. To him, however, it was just another reminder how _different_ this new galaxy was in every fashion when compared to the one that the Company had inadvertently left behind.

Then his lightning claws found their way inwards and upwards in the chest cavity of a Cerberus crewman, and his mind reengaged with the combat raging around him.

Blood, limbs, and viscera flew through the air as the trio of Marines cut their way through the score of Cerberus crewmembers that had imposed themselves between them and the Shipmaster. Of that score, Klivak noted, only five of them were combat troopers. Had Cerberus truly deployed all of their troops to the xeno station below him and left none remaining for their own defense?

He glanced to the right as a flash of light flared into existence for a brief moment, before a charred and smoking body collapsed to the floor, head and upper torso missing as Manswell lowered one of his mechadendrites. A loud buzz filled the command deck a second later as another mechadendrite twitched, scything through a screaming crewmember without any resistance. Clearly some of the crew had decided that the considerably less bulky Techmarine was a weaker target than the Terminators and were paying the price for their mistake.

A quick stab of pain directed his attention back towards the man that he had left broken and bloody at his feet, where he had managed to pull out a pistol and fire a pair of shots in the joints in his armor. No real harm had been done, but Klivak still felt a faint urge to congratulate the man on his courage and defiance. It was good to see the human spirit at work, even if it was on the part of an enemy working at the behest of Abominable Intelligences.

Instead he simply brought his boot down on the man's head violently before turning back to the remaining Cerberus members.

The Shipmaster lay across one of the command deck's cogitators, splayed out awkwardly where he had fallen. His visor told him that the man still lived, though it was clear that he would not be waking up any time soon if the smoke that faintly wisped upwards from his twitching body was any indication. One of Manswell's mechadendrites sparked briefly before falling back to his side.

It took the three of them less than a minute to kill off the remaining crewmembers before Manswell turned to the blinking consoles that were scattered almost haphazardly around the command deck. His boots were slowly staining red as blood oozed and spread from the corpses that lay broken and torn on the floor, and Klivak found himself staring at it as it lapped and clung to the ceramite, thoughts drifting through his mind.

Red blood. He hated the sight of red blood. It reminded him of all the battlefields where the Chapter had deployed alongside the Imperial Guard, and how prevalent it was there. It reminded him of the blood shed to defend mankind, and once again he thought about just how _different_ this humanity was compared to his own.

How he hated this new galaxy and everything that it stood for.

"You are distracted Brother," the voice of Manswell was flat as it drifted over from where the Techmarine had begun his work on one of the cogitators that were laid out before him. With a blink, Klivak realized that the red Marine had been speaking to him.

"I do not like killing humans," he responded as he turned to face the machine priest, the scowl on his features hidden beneath his helmet. "It is far too ambiguous a matter for my tastes."

"You have never shown such hesitation before," noted Yonthul from where he stood by the ship's viewport.

"It is one thing to slay the mortal servants of the Ruinous Powers Yonthul," he clarified as he sought to calm the emotions that fought within his soul. Hesitation and doubt…these had no place within a servant of the Emperor. "It is another thing entirely to slaughter humans in order to protect traitors aligned with _xenos_ of all things."

Yonthul merely grunted in response while Manswell ignored the pair of them, instead returning his focus to the cogitator. After a long moment of uncomfortable silence, Yonthul spoke once more. "You are not the only one to feel this way, Brother." The words were hesitant and low, yet there was the underlining of frustration that had marked all of his Brothers since they had found themselves here.

"I know," he said simply while he moved to stand by his Brother, steps echoing throughout the command deck as he did. It was far too prevalent an issue for not too.

"Unfortunately, the Brother-Captain is correct when he says that we have little other choice in the matter. He has not been wrong before, yet…" the other Terminator trailed off, allowing silence to take hold once more.

"I know," he repeated, voice heavy.

"We will find a way to make this better," Manswell said as he came over to join them at the viewport, clearly having extracted all he could from the databanks. The trio watched the battle raging below them for a few minutes before Klivak sighed.

"I know," he said, one final time. He supposed he hated those words as well, hated the resigned acceptance that they heralded. "Let us leave this ship and rejoin our Brothers. I need to lose myself within war once more."

The other two said nothing as they turned and exited the bridge, Yonthul taking a moment to grab the still-unconscious Shipmaster before he rejoined them.

Manswell was right, Klivak thought as the other three Marines rejoined them in the ship's hangar. They would bring the Emperor's light to this forsaken galaxy.

Or die in the attempt.


	11. Malediction

_Chapter 10: Malediction_

 ** _Disgusting._**

The low hum and whirr of power armor and the steady clicking of Vargus' force staff meeting the polished tiles that made up the floor of the long hallway he and his Brothers found themselves in was all that could be heard as they made their way deeper into the heart of the xeno station. For those with no attunement to the Immaterium, the occasional distant explosion was the only thing that disturbed the seeming tranquility that was to be found here, the only sign that all was not right with this pict-capture.

For Vargus, however, who had been trained for decades and centuries to leave behind the frail limitations of his mortal shell in order to tread the uncountable and ever-changing tides of the Warp, he could sense the fear and bloodshed that permeated the station. The turmoil churned the relative calm that held sway over the Sea of Souls here, reminding the Epistolary of the multitude of war-torn battlefields that he had strode during his service to the Chapter.

It was, in a way, relaxing for him. He was made for war, and it was only natural to find solace within his purpose in the Emperor's designs.

Unfortunately, that also meant that a certain unwanted tagalong had been roused from where it had lain dormant within his mind since just before Tuchanka.

 ** _Disgusting,_** the Voice trumpeted within his head once more. **_The Lords of Destruction chose your race to be their scions, their rulers of the Materium in their stead. To be above all others. Such has it ever been since the Archpriest of the Primordial Annihilator bent the knee before the unstoppable truths that are Chaos. Yet here you are going to the aid of these beasts, these lesser creatures, debasing yourself ever further._**

Vargus gritted his teeth as he coiled his ceramite-clad fingers tighter around his staff in a vain attempt to ignore the daemon. It was blasphemy to listen to it, and treason to consider its rambling in the slightest.

So why then did he find himself slightly agreeing with it, as much as such an action repulsed him?

In a way, he already knew, no matter how much it disgusted him to admit it. It was easy to throw around words such as necessity and concepts such as duty, but the fact of the matter remained the same no matter the justifications that he told himself and his Brothers: they were to save a group of xeno political leaders in the hopes fostering closer ties with the aliens.

 ** _For all of the lies that the Anathema spoke, and for all of his deluded dreams of ascending to godhood, there was one thing that he was correct in. Aliens have no place within a galaxy ruled by the gods and their servants. Your Captain is a fool for even considering an alliance, no matter how temporary._**

This order went against everything that he had been taught about what it meant to be an Astartes. To be the bulwark of humanity, and the blazing wrath of the Emperor.

 ** _A hindrance to the plans of the gods. An order of deluded fools that serve a corpse that shriveled up and died ten thousand years ago. Stop lying to yourself, Vargus. You could be so much_** **more.**

And for a second, Vargus found himself wavering, if only in the slightest. Visions of him and his Brothers placing mankind in its rightful place in the galaxy danced in front of his eyes, and they were glorious.

"Epistolary?" came the voice of Brother Tenthul from beside him suddenly, shaking him from his reverie. He glanced to meet the eyes of the Tactical Marine and saw the unspoken concern that lay within them.

"I-I am fine, Brother," he lied, shaking off the lingering aftereffects of the apparitions as he did. "This station is affecting me strangely. The sooner we are off it, the sooner I will be happier."

It was not truly a lie, he supposed. Not truly. Rather a simple case of crucial omissions. But shame still crawled up his spine at his actions all the same. How could he even consider the lies of a daemon? Every word they spoke was deceitful, and every action that they undertook destructive. He _knew_ this. It had been pounded into his mind by his instructors ever since he had been inducted into the Chapter's Librarius so many years ago.

So why had he listened?

From within his mind, the Voice snorted in dark amusement. **_Because it is the truth. Because Chaos is the Immutable Truth, no matter how much you may wish to deny it,_** it explained. **_And because despite all of these chains that you and your kind place upon yourselves, despite the delusions that you willingly submit to, you know deep down that you were made to rule, not serve._**

Tenthul, for his part, remained blissfully oblivious. "I think, Epistolary, that you will be hard-pressed to find a Brother who disagrees with you, myself included," he chuckled softly. Concern found a place within Tenthul's voice once more as he continued. "Are you sure that you are well, Brother? You are not suffering from any sort of relapse from the injuries that incapacitated you during our transition here, are you?"

"No Brother," Vargus said, his tone more confident this time. "I am certain that I am fine. Should anything else happen, I will see the Apothecaries after the mission is over."

"Very well," Tenthul replied as he inclined his head slightly, before turning his gaze back towards the corridor, accepting Vargus' words at face value.

And there it was. That simple trust that dominated all Astartes bonds of brotherhood. Vargus knew that if he simply asked him, Tenthul would die for him in a heartbeat, trusting that his Brother knew best.

And Vargus was abusing those bonds and contemplating treason. The thought made him sick, almost violently so.

 ** _Liar. Weak._** **Pathetic** ** _._**

Desperate not to dwell upon the matter any further, Vargus instead chose to send his consciousness outwards into the Warp, seeking out the individuals that they had been dispatched to find. While the _Shadow's_ machine spirit had been able to isolate the general area within which the xeno Councilors had been transferred to, there was some strange property of the station that had blocked any more advanced scanning. Without the use of his sixth sense, it was highly possible that they would be wandering for hours down here.

His soul wandered purposefully through the meandering pathways of the Warp, blazing a trail on the ethereal twists and turns that any non-psychic would have been driven mad merely trying to contemplate. He ducked beneath a kaleidoscope of ever-changing colors that threatened to block his path before carefully stepping over an impossibly large gap with ease. Even here, in a Sea of Souls that was far less deadly than the one he had left, there was no telling what would happen should he stumble in the slightest.

Eventually he found the trio of souls that he had been searching for, and with a sudden shift of consciousness and the faint tang of ozone wafting on the stale, recycled air, he found himself back within his body once more, his chronometer helpfully informing that though it had he had existentially wandered for a number of minutes, only a few seconds had passed in the Materium. Apparently it was destined to be a universal constant that the Immaterium would forever be an odd and anomalous reality no matter where one went.

"This way," he grunted, gesturing down a side corridor as he did. His Brothers shifted behind him, following him unwaveringly as he changed course.

It did not take long to reach their destination, despite having to navigate a veritable maze of passageways. Vargus had little doubt that had they had been without psychic support, his Brothers would have wandered for hours on end before finding the hidden panic room that the Councilors had barricaded themselves within. Whoever had designed this section of the station had clearly been beyond merely concerned for their own safety, and more full-on paranoid.

They came to a halt before an automatic door that glared back at them with a balefully red-glowing display that indicated lockdown. To anyone else, the ingress would have appeared as just another entryway in a hallway filled to the brim with them, but Vargus' sixth sense could see the collection of individuals cowering within, fear and determination and more rolling off of their souls as they waited out the Cerberus invasion outside.

To his left, Tenthul placed his helmet back on, while behind him the other Marines tensed up. Though the other Astartes were bereft of the advantages granted to him by his sixth sense, they no doubt expected that trouble lay within. None of them wanted to be the first Imperial casualty here in this galaxy, laid low by an errant shot fired from one of the primitive autoguns used here by a panicked civilian.

Vargus nodded at the motions even as he pressed his hand against the door, power surging from the wellspring that was his soul as he did. Brother Manswell had already managed to decrypt the Cerberus order of battle from the captured warship and had transmitted their objectives to the Captain. The deaths of the xeno Councilors had been amongst the main reasons why the traitors had attempted to seize the station, thus their presence here. Troublingly however, there had been cryptic references to other, more veiled objectives.

There had been one unexpected anomaly, however, glaringly obvious in its absence. There had been no order, cryptic or otherwise, that had commanded the occupation of the station. Cerberus was seemingly here for a hit and run operation rather than a full blown occupation. But if such were the case, Vargus had found himself pondering, then why would the shadowy organization send a fleet? Surely such objectives would have been better served with operatives and assassins?

Vargus blinked once, refocusing his gaze on the entrance that lay beneath his hand. Such questions would have to wait until after the battle, when they had a clearer picture of the situation. Right now, he had a door to open.

A flash of eldritch power flooded into the obstinate portal, flash freezing it and reducing it to an oversized block of ice while the temperature of the hallway dropped due to the psychic phenomenon. He withdrew his gauntlet from his handiwork and balled it into a fist, before sending it crashing back into the ice with all the subtlety of a rampaging grox, shattering it and sending a hail of shards flying inwards.

"Forwards Brothers, maintain formation," he spoke into the vox channel as he drew his fist back. "If they engage, do not return fire. A bloodbath is the last thing we need right now."

Confirmation pings resounded back as he and his Brothers pounded inwards a moment later, their massive frames imposing in the light mist left behind by the psychic ice. Panic and determination swelled upwards and outwards amongst the souls waiting within, and a hail of mass accelerator rounds echoed throughout the enclosed space, unnaturally loud as they pinged off of hardened ceramite, but none of the Marines raised a weapon in return.

The fire dissipated a few moments later when the defenders realized that they were not Cerberus come to massacre them, but the weapons remained pointed in their direction.

"Enough," Vargus spoke into the tense atmosphere that permeated the room. "We have come to take you to safety."

"Bullshit," spat one of the soldiers, a human woman with brunette hair and blue armor. She had a shotgun clasped in her hands and firmly pointed at him, for all the good that it would do her should hostilities break out.

Vargus cocked his head slightly at the woman as he tried to decipher her response. "I'm afraid I do not understand Brother," came Tenthul's voice over the vox. Clearly he was not the only confused by the word.

"Neither do I. Perhaps Manswell's translation matrix was nowhere near as thorough as he boasted it to be," he said in reply.

What he did understand, however, was the waves of disbelief and doubt that were washing off the defenders in great waves. Choosing to ignore the initial response, he pushed onwards. "I must speak with your Councilors. They are not safe here on this station."

"And how do we know you're not with Cerberus?" asked one of the other guards. Asari, if the so-called 'codex' that he had skimmed after being provided it by the Alliance was to be believed. This one had a bulky pistol pointed directly at his vox-grill, even though the weapon still had a long way to go before it could be compared to a bolt pistol.

"If we wanted you dead, we would have already killed you all," Tenthul spoke in a flat monotone. Vargus could hear the other Marine's patience fraying with every syllable.

The temperature in the room plummeted as Tenthul's logic washed over the defenders, who promptly reaffirmed their aim on the Marines. If the atmosphere before had been tense, now it was only one ill-conceived breath from descending into warfare.

"Perhaps that was not your best decision ever Brother," Vargus spoke into the vox tersely.

"I would welcome it were they to open fire. The Brother-Captain may know what he is doing with our undertaking here, but it still goes against what we are as Astartes," came the reply.

Vargus' fingers coiled around his force staff minutely at the response…

 ** _Do it. Give the order, and they will be more loyal to you than that fool of a leader. All power begins somewhere._**

…before untensing just as much. "Enough," he said. "We have our duty."

For their part, the defenders seemed to not notice the gathering tension, momentarily distracted as the blue-clad woman raised a finger to an earpiece. Whatever she heard clearly displeased her, her face contorting into a disbelieving snarl before she schooled her face into a carefully neutral expression.

"The Councilors wish to speak with you," she said acridly, her tone practically screaming exactly what she thought of that notion.

For his part, Vargus merely nodded in response before stomping over to the reinforced door that announced the presence of the Councilors' panic room, Tenthul right behind him. Despite whatever he or his Brothers thought, and whatever the Voice sneered and demanded, he would cling to his duty.

If only because it was all that he had left in this contradictory new reality.

* * *

"And how do we know that you are not simply waiting to kill us the moment we let our guard down?" challenged Tevos. "Your Captain certainly had no qualms murdering a Councilor in his own office!"

"If you are aware that the Brother-Captain killed Udina, then I have little doubt that you also know that he was a traitor. A traitor, and the reason why Cerberus is on this station in the first place," Vargus rumbled back.

Trapped between the two quarreling individuals, Sparatus could only sigh in despair. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Valern blink twice in rapid succession, a visual cue that he was just as fed up with the situation as Sparatus was given how unflappable the Salarian normally was.

"The only reason Cerberus is on the Citadel is because of you lot," Tevos snorted in response. "If you hadn't…"

"Enough, Councilor Tevos," Sparatus groaned out, desperately hoping to keep his colleague from doing anything foolish. "If the…Epistolary, was it?" he asked, looking towards the bulk that was currently occupying an inordinate amount of the panic room in which he and the other Councilors had been sequestered. Receiving an answering nod, and ignoring the betrayed look that the Asari sped his way, he pushed onwards. "If the Epistolary says that he is here to move us to safety, then I myself believe him."

"As do I," Valern said quickly, before Tevos could protest. "There's no telling what sort of information that Udina may have passed on to Cerberus, including the location of this room."

For a moment, it looked like Tevos still wanted to object, before deflating slightly as she gave in. "Very well," she conceded with a slight indignant huff. "Where do you plan on relocating us to?"

Momentarily, idly, Sparatus wondered if whether not he and his fellow Councilors would be the first to set foot inside the monster of a warship that these massive warriors utilized. Without a shadow of a doubt, it was currently the safest place to be within the entirety of the Widow Nebula.

"My Brothers have secured a series of landing zones, and are working in conjunction with this station's defense forces to expand outwards. We will take you to one of them."

Or perhaps they would not be. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Valern's face almost imperceptibly shift from hopeful to disappointed with those words.

"Councilors," said the Council's newest Spectre as she burst through the door, ignoring the reactions of all those within. "I just received a report from the C-Sec Executor. You're not going to like it."

"What is it?" boomed Vargus, interrupting him before he could even ask how Executor Bailey had managed to contact them in all of the chaos that was engulfing the Citadel.

The Spectre, Ashley Williams Sparatus remembered as his brain casually floated the tidbit of information to the forefront, shot the hulking super soldier a distrustful glare before turning back to him. "Sir, Cerberus has found where we are, and they're planning a major assault on this location. He said there was someone special with them as well, some Cerberus elite-looking guy."

"Did he say anything else?" Tevos asked, face pale as she digested this unwelcome news.

"No ma'am, that's all I heard before we lost comms again. Even that was choppy."

For his part, Vargus had one massive finger pressed up against his ear, where Sparatus could see the faintest hint of metal peeking out from underneath. He surmised this to be a comm bud, and was validated a moment later when the man straightened upwards.

"Our plans have changed," he said, nodding towards the other Marine that had followed him inside the room. "Right now, we are going nowhere."

* * *

 _"_ _Brother-Captain, I assume you heard the report?"_ Vargus crackled across the vox.

"The Shipmaster just relayed it to me. A major enemy assault on your position. It corresponds with the initial information that Manswell retrieved from their ship. I assume you are requesting backup?" Nemros asked in reply. His eyes swept across the plaza that was laid out before him, the broken forms of Cerberus soldiers and machinery strewn haphazardly here and there, while a sluggish wave of dark red blood oozed towards his boots.

A macabre scene to be sure, something that would cause others to turn away in disgust, but nothing here was new to him. He had tread the gore-caked battlefields that the valiant soldiers of the Imperial Guard routinely fought upon, and those warzones put this to shame by a wide margin.

 _"_ _It would be appreciated. I do not doubt our ability to hold, but with the handicap presented by our charges, I would feel better with more Brothers by my side."_

"Acknowledged Brother," Nemros said before thinking over who he could send. He and Epsilon Squad had beaten back the Cerberus assault in their sector, while the other battle groups were still currently engaged with their own areas. Any reinforcements from the _Shadow_ would take too long; his Brothers needed aid now.

"I'm afraid I can send no one else, Brother," he said as he glanced towards Epsilon's Brother-Sergeant.

 _"_ _I understand Brother. We will make them pay until you can spare reinforcements."_

"You misunderstand me," he said, a hint of amusement creeping into his voice. "I cannot send anyone else due to their duties, but I find myself caught in a bit of a lull."

Vargus momentarily chuckled in response. _"If that is all you can send, then I suppose we can find a way to make do."_

"Good, I will be there shortly," he replied, closing the vox channel before turning to Epsilon squad. "Sergeant! Hold this position until reinforcements reach it, our Brothers have need of me."

Without waiting for acknowledgement, Nemros turned and sprinted towards the nearest hallway, the machine spirit residing within his armor uploading the fastest path towards the Council panic room.

He could only pray to the Emperor that his Brothers would be able to hold out long enough for him to arrive.

* * *

 _"_ _He's coming. I can see him on the security cameras,"_ said the Cerberus trooper over the comm, voice unaffected by the jamming systems put in place by Cerberus advance teams at the beginning of the assault on the Citadel. _"Bravo and Charlie squads are beginning their diversionary assault now."_

"Good," replied Kai Leng as he paced back and forth in the square, trying to burn up the small knot of apprehension that was currently gnawing away at his gut. "All steps have been taken to ensure he must come through here?"

 _"_ _Yes sir, all secondary passages have been either blocked or collapsed. The fastest way to the Council's panic room is through the square."_

"Then regroup with the others, you're no longer needed there."

 _"_ _Understood sir."_ With that, the comm feed went dead, leaving Leng alone with his thoughts once more.

He absently ran his thumb over the holographic projector, eyes fixed on tunnel that the Space Marine leader would be emerging from within a matter of minutes. The target was en route, the snipers were in place, and there was more than enough troopers waiting to bring down a single soldier, power armor or not.

All steps had been taken to ensure that everything went smoothly. So why did he feel so nervous? He _never_ felt this nervous.

Doing his best to push the growing feeling aside, Kai Leng stopped pacing and turned to face the hallway exit. This mission was of critical importance to not just Cerberus, but humanity as a whole. And while Leng was not normally one to do anything for any reason beyond the exhilaration of the kill, even he could appreciate the gravity of the situation.

That had to be the reason for his nervousness. Had to be. Nothing more.

The pounding of feet drew his attention back towards the exit, and his hands dropped toward the sword and projector that were hanging off of his waist.

He had a date with destiny to attend to.

* * *

 _"_ _Brother-Captain, Cerberus has begun its attack. Only light elements so far, but it is most likely that they will step up their assault soon,"_ said Vargus over the vox, his voice interspersed with the sounds of bolters firing and a grenade detonating in the background.

"Understood," Nemros replied as he turned yet another corner, "I should reach your position in about seven minutes." With a silent snarl, he closed the link, frustrated at his lack of progress. The station was a winding labyrinth, honeycombed with passages that seemingly went nowhere. To make matters worse, he was constantly being redirected, the straightest paths to the panic room blocked by hallways that had been seemingly damaged sometime during the fighting and would take too long for him to clear on his own.

He turned yet another corner, leaping over a fallen support beam as he did. Artificial sunlight graced the exit of the hallway, where an automatic entrance was ajar, continually attempting to close itself despite the chunk of rubble that had fallen in-between the doors. Reaching it, he kicked the hunk of metal out of the way before making his way out into an open plaza.

It was clear that the square had once been an economic district. The presence of cafes and stores made that obvious enough, even in their varying states of ruin. Given the number of corpses that were strewn about on the ground, it must have been a fairly popular one as well before Cerberus attacked. Most had been gunned down as they fled for the exits, though there were a few broken bodies still by the shops where they had been caught out. One was even down face first in a plate of food, a gaping hole in his temple a clear indicator that he had most likely been the first to die.

And in the middle of all the silent carnage stood a black-clad figure, alive and obviously waiting for him.

He cautiously took a step towards the stock-still figure, finger ready to depress the trigger of his combi-plasma at a moment's notice. His eyes took in every detail: the yellow Cerberus symbol emblazoned upon his breast, the jet black armor that covered nearly every inch of his body, and the presence of significant amounts of bionics. But the two objects that captured his attention the most were the sword grasped in his left hand and the silvery orb in his right.

Before he could take another step further, the figure's head snapped up, gazing at him placidly. "Someone would like to speak with you, Captain," the man said before raising his right arm and tossing the orb towards him.

Nemros almost shot him right then and there, combi-plasma whipping upwards at the motion. It was only the sight of the orb suddenly coming to a stop and a holographic figure materializing in the air around it that stopped him from doing so.

The image clarified into a man wearing a black suit sitting in a chair with a lho stick in one hand and what was presumably an alcoholic drink in the other. But what caught Nemros' attention the most were the eyes that gazed back at him, shockingly blue even when put through a digital filter. As he sifted through the eidetic memory that all Astartes boasted, Nemros could not recall a single time that he had ever seen a pair of eyes that blue before. Not naturally at the very least. Either they were a cosmetic enhancement, or cybernetics. Given their similarity to some of the combat implants that Slenarr had carved out of the bodies of Cerberus troopers, he assumed they were the latter.

"Captain Nemros," came a very distinctive voice, one that he had heard before, back in Udina's office.

"The Illusive Man," Nemros replied, eyes narrowing as he focused on the sitting man with a new focus, questions running rampant through his head. What exactly was going on here?

"I'm most disappointed in you, Captain Nemros. With your group's technology and knowledge, and Cerberus' resources, we could have skyrocketed humanity to new heights. Untapped potential lay within our grasp…and then _you_ went and pulled that _stunt_ back in Udina's office." A fierce scowl crossed the hologram's face. "And for what? Some concept of honor? Some law regarding artificial intelligence? What are those in the face of humanity's survival and dominance over the galaxy?"

"I would not expect someone like you to understand the fact that there are lines that are never meant to be crossed," Nemros said in reply, a scowl of his own taking up residence behind his helmet. "You are faithless, and transgress upon territory forbidden by the Emperor Himself for a reason. It should come as no surprise that the Emperor's Finest stand against you, heretek."

"As I said, disappointing. Perhaps I was too blinded by the opportunities that you presented to see the dangers that your recklessness poses."

"If you cannot tell the difference between recklessness and duty, then I truly pity you."

"Really? Allow me to clarify the situation for you: there was no assault planned to kill the Council. But you charged off anyways at the first sign that your men could be in danger, not even bothering to verify your information before you did so. If that is duty and not recklessness to you, then perhaps I should be relieved you chose as you did."

"My duty is to stand with my Brothers, no matter what. They are not expendable pawns, like you treat those mindless husks you call your soldiers."

"A good leader knows when to make difficult decisions, including those that require the sacrifice of those under his command. You would do well to attempt to learn this simple fact."

Nemros clenched his fist, choking back his response. To an Astartes, brotherhood was all, and there was no point in trying to convince an oath breaker of that fact. "Why?" he instead asked, changing tack abruptly.

"What?" the Illusive Man asked, his tone making it obvious that Nemros had succeeded in throwing him off-track with one word.

"This." Nemros gestured around him, pointing towards the assembled Cerberus forces and the scarred and broken architecture that surrounded them. "All of this. You came here to kill the Council and take over this station. Why? You could never effect a working occupation, nor would killing this galaxy's highest political leaders gain you anything. So I ask again, why?"

The Illusive Man snorted at that, standing up from his chair and taking a few steps towards him as he did. "This was never about the Citadel, or killing the Council. This was about _you._ When you failed to see the reasoning behind my logic, I had to resort to other methods to get what I wanted. Those orders you saw? They were all fake, something you were designed to see. What I _knew_ you would see. It was all simply a matter of playing my cards correctly…and a hefty dosage of luck, I will admit."

"And how, exactly, did you know that we would end up here?" Nemros pressed on, shuffling the information on how he and his Brothers had been tricked into the back of his mind. This Illusive Man would receive his payment in full for this insult later.

"Please, don't insult my intellect. A mysterious group of super soldiers with technology the likes of which this galaxy has never seen before shows up and ends a planetary occupation over the span of a few hours? Where else could you go after a showing like that? Earth? Palaven? Thessia?" The Illusive Man rolled his eyes, the condescending gesture causing Nemros' brow to twitch violently. "You were always going to come here sooner or later, whether you knew it or not. There was simply no other place for you to go."

Nemros said nothing at that, refusing to give the leader of Cerberus the satisfaction of an answer. Silence permeated the square, broken only by a platoon of Cerberus troopers that moved in from the hallway opposite the one that Nemros had exited from, taking up position around and behind the black-clad Cerberus operative.

"It seems that there is no more to be said then," the Illusive Man said after the silence stretched on for a few more moments. "Leng, capture the good Captain if you can. If you must kill him, don't make too much a mess of the body. I require it intact." With that, the Illusive Man turned, his hologram sauntering back towards the assassin before disappearing into the orb.

As the hologram powered down and flickered out of sight, Nemros sighed before opening a vox channel. "Vargus," he said, "Start moving the Council, there is no assault headed your way. I will join you in escorting them to safety in a short while."

 _"_ _Understood. How long exactly will you be delayed, Brother-Captain?"_

Nemros glanced to the right, taking in the sight of a pair of snipers with their rifles trained on his chestpiece, then glanced back towards the left, where the Illusive Man's lackey had just retrieved that holographic projector and reattached it to his belt before dropping into a combat stance. "Not very," he replied before whipping up his combi-plasma and opening up on the gathered Cerberus troopers.

The burst of shells caught two of the troopers before they could react, blowing the first one's head to a thousand fragments and leaving the second one futilely grasping at his now wide-open chest cavity, desperately trying to stem the flood of blood and punctured organs that streamed out.

The rest were still bringing their weapons to bear after being caught by surprise when Nemros exploded into action, charging into their midst. _Defiance_ flashed out from its sheath, a white and blue blur as limbs flew and screams rang out. One trooper went down, clutching the stump of an arm before Nemros' boot found his head, caving it in and ending his misery. Another fell silently, two separate halves sliding in opposite directions before they hitting the ground simultaneously.

He was a storm of violence that killed with impossible and utter lethalness. The few Cerberus troopers that managed to back away fell one after another as his combi-plasma belched forth a series of shells that left ruined corpses scattered throughout the square. The pair of snipers opened fire, either desperate or simply uncaring as to whether or not they accidently hit their comrades.

It was during all of this that the Cerberus lieutenant finally made his move. Springing in from the side, Leng made for one graceful slash aimed directly for his neck, no doubt intending to end the mismatched fight in a single blow.

It would have been impressive, lethal even, if he had been a mortal. But Nemros had long since ceased being anything as simple as mortal. He leaned back, letting the blade swing harmlessly in front of his face. Before Leng could react, he lashed out and caught his wrist, twisting it sharply the moment he caught it. A grunt of agony and the twin sounds of bone and machine snapping from the force of the blow were the only sounds that he was rewarded with, but the move was enough to force the assassin backwards.

However, this was enough time for a trio of the few remaining Cerberus troopers to maneuver behind him and take aim. Likewise, the snipers had finally managed to attain a clear shot, their red targeting lasers pointed at his helmet, while Leng simply flipped his sword to his good hand and prepared to charge again.

Nemros spun to the side, forcing Leng to dodge the volley of shots that the Cerberus troopers had just fired, while bringing up his combi-plasma and emptying the rest of his clip in the direction of the snipers. While a crude and inaccurate attack, the nature of a boltgun's ammunition was enough to ensure that any sort of hit was almost guaranteed to be lethal. One of the snipers fell backwards, ducking beneath cover that was rapidly disappearing, while the other took a glancing blow to the side of her torso, leaving her rapidly bleeding out as crimson liquid poured out of the resulting gaping hole.

With the most pressing threat suppressed for the moment he spun back around, _Defiance_ lashing out at the Cerberus troopers, eager to make them pay for their impudence. Two fell headless, while the third crawled backwards, drawing out an electro-baton as he did. Nemros advanced, ready to kill the man and finish the fight.

Right until Leng reappeared, blasting him twice with some sort of palm blaster and forcing him to step back. He cranked back _Defiance_ just as Leng swung his sword downwards and the trooper lunged forwards with his baton.

Nemros saw his opening, and sliced upwards. The disruptive power field of _Defiance_ met Leng's sword and critically weakened it at a molecular level, before the adamantium blade followed and shattered it into a thousand pieces. Unfazed by the momentary distraction, the blade continued on its course, slicing through Leng's arm as it did.

Leng screamed as his now former appendage fell to the ground and a mixture of blood and other fluids spurted out of the stump. _Throne_ did he scream. _Defiance_ carried onwards, uncaring of the agony it left in its wake, before finally coming to a stop in the throat of the last Cerberus trooper.

A high-pitched whine followed by the sharp _crack_ of a sniper rifle firing were the dual heralds of a spike of pain flaring up in the back of Nemros' head as a high-powered mass accelerator round did its best to try to bore through hardened ceramite. Warning runes popped up on his visor's display, needlessly alerting him of the damage that his armor had sustained from the shot. With a growl that was a mixture of pain and irritation, he dismissed the alerts with a blink before turning around, leaving _Defiance_ lodged within its new, bloody sheath, and drawing up his combi-plasma one last time. The sniper fired again, panic causing her to miss and the shot sparked off his breastplate rather than another blow to his helmet, while Nemros hastily ripped the sickle-shaped cartridge from his weapon and slammed a new one home.

In the end, they both ended up firing their last rounds nigh-simultaneously. The sniper's round bounced off his helmet with a series of sparks, coming dangerously close to smashing through his right eyepiece. For his part, Nemros' pair of bolts found their home within the sniper's left shoulder and head, leaving a mangled corpse tumbling backwards in the wake of their detonations.

Turning away from the now-dead sniper, he found himself faced with only bodies as silence reasserted its hold over the plaza once more. The Cerberus assassin had apparently taken advantage of Nemros' lapse in attention to flee, leaving his severed arm where it had fallen and a trail of blood marking where he had gone.

Nemros looked around, surveying the carnage that he had just wreaked, and the smear of blood that led away from the fight, as he yanked _Defiance_ from where he had left it. Mentally he debated as to whether or not he should give chase, before turning and heading towards the panic room. Even though there was no actual Cerberus assault, his Brothers still needed him, and there was no telling if the Illusive Man had any more tricks up his sleeve in case his plan here failed.

As he ran, he muttered an oath beneath his breath. He would not let himself be so easily fooled again.

 _A/N: And with that, the longest chapter I have ever posted is done. All I can say about this is one word: finally._

 _I do have one question for you lovely readers however. Is there any character so far that you've particularly enjoyed reading? Personally I've found myself writing far more of Vargus and the Voice than I thought I would be doing. There's something about their dynamic that is just fun to explore._


	12. We Go Where We Wilt

_Chapter 11: We Go Where We Wilt_

"Either find a location for my Brothers and I to strike back at, or we shall do so on our own," the Captain gritted out testily.

"You claim to be our ally in this struggle, but then continually refuse our pleas for aid!" the Asari Councilor shot back.

"That is very ironic coming from you, of all people, xeno," Nemros spat out. "You cower in your own systems while passing judgment upon the rest of us, upon humanity. Stay your yammering tongue xeno, lest I remove it."

"How dare you!"

Sparatus sighed despairingly from where he stood in the Council's recently-declared war room. To his left, Valern shot him a look filled with sympathy before turning back to the escalating conflict that was filling the room. For his part, Sparatus simply hoped that everyone walked out of the room alive, unlike the last time a Councilor had attempted to convince the Space Marine Captain of something.

It had been a few days, but the majority of the fighting had since died out across the station. The Cerberus forces had stood no real shot against the combined forces striking back against them, especially once C-Sec had managed to rally and regroup. Thanks to his efforts in helping push back the attack, the Council and the newly-arrived Admiral Hackett had invited the Astartes, as he had called himself, Captain to help them strategize their next move against the Reapers. Joining him had been the black and skull adorned figure that had been with him at the first meeting, Xeras if he remembered correctly, who now hovered near the exit.

Which had led directly to their current situation.

"Enough!" shouted Hackett over the din created by the two Councilors and one Astartes. "We have enough problems to deal with right now without all of you acting like children!"

Despite the neutral expression Hackett had adopted, Sparatus could still see the man flinch slightly as the others turned to look at him, one of which was a positively piqued Asari and another was a giant in power armor. Still, he remained calm, and Sparatus felt his respect for the Admiral rise by several notches. The man had some serious plates to do something like that.

"Captain Nemros, you are certain that you wish for you and your men to act independently then?" Hackett asked.

"Indeed," came the monotone reply.

"You are adamant in your decision to not support us on Palaven then?" Sparatus asked.

"I had hoped I had made that clear the first half a dozen times."

Sparatus felt his mandibles flare at that remark, but forced himself to remain calm. Perhaps it had been too much to hope for after all. Still, the idea of both the Krogans and these Astartes working together to save his homeworld had been far too tempting for him to simply pass up.

Hackett, for his part, merely sighed in resigned defeat. Sparatus had a feeling that it was an expression that the human was receiving plenty of experience in these days. "Very well, then perhaps you have some idea as to where you intend to strike?"

Nemros made a noise behind his helmet, a curious mixture of disgust and capitulation. "Unfortunately not," he practically snarled. "It would be simple to merely strike at the first occupied world we came across, but that would ultimately mean nothing beyond simply venting our anger impotently at those abominable constructs."

"You could always-" Sparatus cut off as the Captain's head swiveled back towards him, eye slits winking menacingly as it did. Oh well. It had been worth a shot he supposed.

"There is one thing, perhaps," said Hackett after a moment of uncomfortable silence. Bringing up his arm, he began to input commands into his omni-tool. Sparatus felt one his plates shifting upwards involuntarily in response to the image that sprang to life from the holo-projector.

"Terra Nova," Hackett explained for the benefit of the massive figure that was now staring intently at the rotating blue and green orb that was orbited by a number of red blips. "Before the invasion, this planet was one of the Alliance's largest colonies, with projections placing it at overtaking Earth's population around a century from now. Even after suffering Reaper occupation for over a month now, it most likely still boasts a significant number of inhabitants."

"Most likely?" the giant queried. Sparatus could easily imagine the scowl that had settled on the man's face, despite the presence of his helmet.

"We've been unable to make any contact with any survivors on the planet," Hackett sighed. "The planet didn't have any of the new QEC devices like Earth did, and until recently the Reapers maintained a significant orbital presence, preventing any ships from getting too close."

"Something happened, then."

"Yes. Tuchanka happened," Hackett explained, most of the red dots on the holoscreen vanishing as he did. "With the Krogans entering the fight, we've been able to divert a large amount of the Reaper presence in the galaxy, although not all of it. Reports from the initial invasion force put their numbers at nearly two dozen, while the latest report from one of our scout ships puts them at a quarter of that."

"Which is where you want us to come in," Nemros finished for him, still staring at the projection of the planet while he spoke. His helmet swiveled towards the man who, Sparatus realized belatedly, practically ruled humanity now through process of elimination. "We will do this, but there are not enough of us to do this on our own."

"You certainly seemed to have no issue on Benning," Valern noted from beside Sparatus.

"Cerberus has nowhere near the same numbers that the Reapers possess," Nemros shot back. "Where there were a few hundred of them on Benning, we will possibly be facing millions on Terra Nova if what you've told me about the Reapers to be true."

"Do you still not trust us?" Tevos asked irately from her spot.

"You are xenos," the man answered back, as if the simple statement answered everything.

Perhaps, in a way, it did, Sparatus mused even as he watched Valern move to stop Mount Tevos from erupting. He remembered back when his race had first made contact with the humans, and how deeply it had scarred some of them even to this day. He had no idea where Nemros and the rest of his Brothers had come from, but clearly something far worse had happened to them. The constant xenophobia was disconcerting, yes, but perhaps some sense could be derived from it.

"I am aware that there aren't as many of you as we wish there were," conceded Hackett, who was obviously attempting to desperately push the strategizing along before any intergalactic incidents occurred. The Brother-Captain turned back to face him, so Sparatus assumed that he was succeeding. "The Alliance can spare you what's left of the 27th Marine Regiment and the 43rd Combat Engineer Battalion, along with their space assets but that's as far as we can go. All of our other units are either deployed or wiped out."

"And that equals?" Nemros asked.

"I don't have the exact numbers currently, but around a few thousand trained soldiers from what I recall."

"It will have to do. We will be attempting to evacuate all that we can, not trying to retake the planet after all," Nemros grunted before turning back to the rest of them.

"We are agreed then?" he asked, his helmet swiveling as he took in the sight of crowd. When no one spoke up, he nodded, though whether in satisfaction at their silence or out of simple acknowledgement of his newly-given objective Sparatus knew not. "Very well then, my Brothers and I will depart shortly. Admiral, the _Shadow_ 's Shipmaster will be in contact with you regarding a rendezvous point for your men." With that, he turned and walked out of the room, followed by his fellow, silence filling the void that he had left behind.

* * *

"I do not approve of the direction in which you are taking the Company, Brother-Captain," Xeras' voice grated out of his helmet's vox grill as he stomped alongside Nemros.

The pair of Astartes made their way out of the elevator to the Citadel Tower and began making their way towards the lower levels, where they would find the next elevator to take them to their docking bay.

"I believe you have made that clear on numerous occasions Xeras," Nemros stated simply, taking in the sights as he did. This so-called Citadel was vastly different from the space stations maintained by the Imperium. Yet another difference that left him uncomfortable with where the Emperor had led him and his brothers. "And I am sure you will continue to tell me as well."

"Because it bears repeating."

"Indeed. And I appreciate your efforts to keep us pure in the sight of the Emperor. Truly you do the Chapter great honor with your deeds."

Silence was the only response he received for his words.

"Tell me Xeras, do you think that what we are doing is right?" Nemros gestured towards the milling crowd of xenos and humans alike that struggled to catch an awed glimpse of the strange transhumans clad in huge armor that had helped push back the Cerberus onslaught, more rushing to join them by the moment. A few even cheered aloud at the sight of them, though most remained blessedly quiet. "Do you think that these people are worth saving, that we should trade our lives for theirs?"

An unnecessary question, to be sure, but he knew that the Chaplain needed to speak his mind. It would not do to have his anger and righteous fury eat away at him, not when Nemros desperately needed it directed at their enemies.

"No," came the immediate response. "No I do not. Neither do our Brothers, and neither do you. They may not be traitors like Cerberus, or those that have fallen under the sway of the Reapers, but they still debase themselves with xenos, an act that has been a crime worthy only of death since the days when the Emperor Himself led the Crusade. Were the decision up to me, I would never have involved us in this in the first place, rather focusing instead on finding a way back to the Chapter. I would have punished them for their transgressions, rather than bowed the knee to them," Xeras spat out, disdain thick in his voice.

Nemros simply nodded minutely at that, knowing that the Chaplain was saying nothing more than what he himself often found himself wishing that he could do.

"But…" here Xeras hesitated before continuing, "Perhaps you are correct to lead us as you are." The admission came out pained, as if his tongue rebelled against the very words he was speaking. "These people, these humans, they are not our humanity. They are naïve children, fumbling about, blind to the harsh truths that the universe so eagerly imparts upon its inhabitants. They have not suffered as we have, and so do not understand why we act as we do." After a brief moment, the Chaplain grudgingly added, "Their foolishness can be corrected in time. All we need do is ensure that they survive until then."

"The Emperor did not turn his back upon humanity because of its actions during the Dark Age, Xeras," Nemros muttered concurringly, keeping his voice low as they passed a pair of patrolling C-Sec troopers. He sneered in disgust as the pair, Turians both, nodded at him in respect. "Despite the sins of mankind in that age being far greater than the sins of this humanity now. As His agents here, we must strive to emulate Him as best we may, as we always have."

"Indeed."

The flash of light that flared into existence in front of them left the pair confused for a moment, jolting them rudely from their conversation, before their eyes came to rest upon a quartet of humans that smiled uneasily back at them. A trio of drones hovered near them, each one bearing a different insignia on their sides.

Nemros huffed in aggravation as the humans approached them nervously, drones following. It was only when the drones came to a halt and began projecting more light that

"Remembrancers," Xeras grounded out over the vox as he was approached by a young woman, his hand dropping towards his waist.

"Refrain from killing them," Nemros said sternly, even as he balled his own wayward hand into a fist.

"That was never my intention, although intimidation was not out of the question."

"That is more than acceptable."

"Excuse me?" said the woman that had approached Xeras. "My name is Emily Wong, part of the Citadel News Network. Can I please have a moment of your time?"

"No." The monosyllabic word had barely left Nemros' lips before the other remembrancers pushed forward, each one trying to speak over the others.

"Please, I just want a quick statement from the so-called Saviors of the Citadel," Wong stated with an obviously fake smile plastered on her face.

"Excuse me?" Any pretense at indifference dissolved at that. What had she just called them?

"That's what they're calling you in the streets. Apparently you made quite the impression on the inhabitants of the Citadel." Wong's smile shifted into a vaguely predatory one. "Any comment on that?"

"No," Nemros said one last time, barely keeping himself from spitting out the word. Instead, he simply shouldered past the persistent woman and her peers, ignoring their shouted indignities and questions as Xeras moved to follow. Out of the corner of his gene-hanced eye, he could see them moving to follow them, so he quickly turned, one hand on the hilt of _Defiance_. That seemed to finally send a clear enough message as they stopped in their tracks.

"If there was one thing that I could choose to leave to its fate, it would be remembrancers," Xeras growled in annoyance as the pair turned away from the now-thoroughly cowed individuals. "They were bad enough back in the Imperium, where they were subject to regulation, but that? Pict-captures of Astartes, so we can no doubt be dissected on their nightly news, with our every word used against us?"

"Even they are servants of the Throne, no matter how much we may sometimes wish otherwise," Nemros chuckled lightly in response to the Chaplain's irate comments, even though he agreed completely with Xeras.

Xeras simply snorted in response, keeping his eyes fixed firmly forward.

"I never took you to be recorder shy," Nemros said lightly as they turned the corner to the elevator that would take them to the docking bay that the Thunderhawk was at.

"There was a remembrancer on Halcys Epsilon, when our Company was doing a sweep for suspected Chaos cults," Xeras began after a moment, voice low. Clearly it was not a memory he was keen on spreading around.

"I remember that," Nemros confirmed. It had taken place nearly a century ago, when an Inquisitor of the Emperor's holy Ordos had called in a debt that the Chapter owed, and had helped preserve the stability of Halcys sub-sector when a Death Guard warband had burst from the Warp months later. "A remembrancer you say?"

Xeras nodded. "She was determined to spread the news about what the Angels of Death were doing on her planet, and Throne damn all else. Halcys Epsilon was rather lax in their information-sharing regulations."

"You explained to her that you were performing a classified duty, did you not?"

"Of course. But apparently the word 'no' did not exist in her vocabulary. Or rather, it did, but only when it was exiting her mouth. She dogged me and our Brothers for weeks on end before finally giving up. It was…" Here Xeras took a moment, no doubt searching for a term capable of expressing his sheer frustration while still remaining respectful in a manner concerning a fellow servant of the Throne. Eventually he seemed to give up. "It was an experience that I hope I never go through again," he finished simply.

Nemros snorted in amusement as they entered the elevator, pressing the button denoting their docking bay while ignoring the Chaplain's betrayed look as he did. "And there are many in the Chapter who call me stubborn."

"You would have met your match in her. Tiny thing, but more stubborn than an adamantium-sheathed grox."

Nemros laughed, the sound echoing within the enclosed space. Idly, he wondered when he had last done so. Certainly before they had arrived here, and everything had changed. Before Arathen Prime, and the death of a world. An Astartes' memory was eidetic, true, but that did not mean that something as trivial as laughter could be recalled on command.

Xeras huffed in annoyance next to him. "When you are finished," he interjected, "I was going to say that this situation, no matter my personal distaste, could be used to our advantage."

"How so?" he asked, pushing away the lingering aftereffects of his amusement as he did so.

"The Council does not trust us. The meeting, and their constant attempts to control our every action, just now revealed that much," the Chaplain extrapolated.

"They are wise not to do so."

"Indeed, yet we still have need of the xenos until these Reapers lay shattered before us. It would not do for them to isolate us from all potential support out of fear of us. We need the inhabitants of this galaxy to desire our aid."

"And you connect this to the remembrancers how?" Nemros asked, curiosity rising.

"Simple, we use one of them to display our deeds to those that would see. The Council cannot deny our effectiveness to the masses then."

"Curious," Nemros said, the elevator coming to a halt as the doors hissed open before them, revealing the hangar bay that contained their transport back to the battle-barge. He eyed the figure clad in black ceramite next to him as they moved to the Thunderhawk's open ramp. "You are seemingly possessed by a shrewd political mind Xeras. Dangerous indeed."

"Not all of us can be bloodthirsty brutes like you Captain," came the wry response as they entered the bowels of the war machine. Nemros replied with laughter once more as they took their positions.

The Thunderhawk's engines roared, its machine spirit sounding its delight at finally leaving the xenos station behind. In his hearts, Nemros joined in. It was off to war once more for him and his Brothers, and after his brief brush with politics just now, he could not wait.

The ride back to the _Shadow_ was brief, albeit fraught with annoyances. The Chapter serfs responsible for piloting the massive war machine found themselves being forced more than once to dodge the path of an errant craft that attempted to fly beside them. No doubt the remembrancers that they had ignored on the station were only the vanguard of a large amount of unwanted attention.

Soon, however, the Thunderhawk touched down inside the _Shadow_ 's hangar bay, landing gear hissing as the machine spirit groaned in delight at finally having returned home.

"I will think on your proposal," Nemros said as he disengaged himself from his harness before standing up. "There is merit in it, and you are not wrong about the Council possibly working to sideline us."

"That is all I can ask for," Xeras said, before standing up as well.

"There is one more matter, Xeras," Nemros said, turning to face the Chaplain before they disembarked down the ramp.

"Yes?" Xeras asked, turning to look at him.

"I am worried about Vargus," Nemros confessed. "He seemed unwell before our excursion on Tuchanka, and he seemed even worse after the attack here."

"With all due respect, Slenarr would be the one to approach in regards to this matter, Brother-Captain. My duties lay with the soul, not the body."

"I already have. Slenarr assures me that physically, Vargus is fine. He has suffered no outstanding wounds since arriving here, which leads me to believe that our sojourn in the Warp affected him more greatly than he lets on."

"Then what would you have me do?"

"Just speak with him. Perhaps he will respond to someone not an Apothecary or his commander. I'm sure that it is most likely nothing, but his behavior troubles me regardless. We need everyone at their absolute best if we are to succeed in our task."

"Very well, Brother-Captain," Xeras assented as they turned to exit the cavernous hangar bay. "I will do my best to root out the cause of his disturbance."

* * *

On a secretive station that orbited a distant red and blue star, the Illusive Man scowled in his seat, his choler rising as reports streamed in from all across the galaxy to be displayed in front of him. Casualty numbers were rising, recruiting worlds were being overrun by Reaper forces, shell companies were being shut down by Citadel officials, the list went on. Everything that he had spent years upon years building up for this moment was all crashing down around him, and he was seemingly powerless to do anything about it.

His hand curled around the glass of bourbon, the glass whining slightly in protest at the amount of force that was being applied to it. All of this, because of those _damned_ fools that had thwarted him time and again! And for what?!

The Illusive Man seethed impotently as his mind struggled to comprehend the enormity of the implications behind his defeat at the Citadel. A significant portion of Cerberus' fleet assets destroyed. Experienced operatives and invaluable sleeper agents wasted on a mission that returned nothing despite all the assets invested in it. Over two thousand troopers, either dead or captured, including veterans and irreplaceable officers. All for nothing.

His eyes narrowed hatefully as he glared at a picture of the figures primarily responsible for his organization's humiliation on the Citadel, and previously on Benning. These so-called Space Marines. They had appeared out of nowhere, consistently destroying all that stood before them, including his own forces. And the only explanation he had received was a half-coherent rant from their Captain moments before he impaled the damned Councilor of humanity _himself!_ What exactly was a 'heretek' supposed to be anyways?

Such wondrous technology, such half-hidden secrets that could have reshaped the way mankind looked at the universe itself, all denied to him for reasons that were unknown. Rage boiled through his veins as the thought pounded in his mind, taunting him.

 ** _Such a shame, is it not? To be defied time and again, by such obstinate creatures. An experience I am unfortunately all too aware of._**

The Illusive Man jolted upwards, hand moving toward the mechanisms built into his chair that would trigger security systems as he scanned for the intruder behind the sudden voice. To his disbelief, he found nothing, not even after he trigged the thermal scan to detect any cloaked assassins.

 ** _You seek mastery over this galaxy, over its pathetic inhabitants. I can help you do so, and far more. All that you desire shall be yours._**

"Where are you?" he demanded, cybernetic eyes still scanning the room despite the holoscreen projected from his chair assuring him that he was alone.

 ** _I am here, yet I am elsewhere. You will not find me, no matter how hard you look. Or rather, you will, but you will not realize it._**

"Enough with the riddles. Who or what exactly are you?" he asked, before shaking his head in disbelief. Truly he had gone insane. Voices in his head? And he was listening to them? All of the pressure that came with a galactic invasion must have finally caught up with him. What an ignominious end for someone such as him. "Are you some sort of telepath?" he queried, internally groaning at such a ludicrous notion even as the words left his lips. He had always prided himself on how far he had come in life through reason and rationality, now he was using terms found only in fantasy novels. Then again, power armor and plasma weaponry had been little more than science fiction concepts only a few weeks ago as well…

 ** _Clever, are you not? I am the Herald of the End and the Voice of the Gods. I am the Breaker of Empires, and the Progenitor of Ruin._**

"Meaningless titles that explain absolutely nothing. Are you one of the Reapers then, come to taunt me over my failure?" he demanded. Had they caught on to his plan to use the device from the Mars Archive to control them? Did they realize he was not the good little pawn that he had been pretending to be? If so, then this could end very badly indeed.

The voice in his head growled, and the Illusive Man caught the impression that it was a mixture of indignation and…amusement? **_Do not confuse me with those pretenders. There are being far older and more powerful than those creatures of metal that style themselves as the determiners of destiny in this galaxy. You are simply unversed in them._**

"I ask again: what are you? Do you have a name?"

A laugh echoed through his mind, cruel and condescending, reveling in his disbelief. **_My name is not for you, lest it drive you mad with its horrific glory. As for what I truly am…_**

With a flash of light, the Illusive Man's right hand burst into flame, illuminating the darkened room with its intensity and causing him to jump upwards in shock. Yet despite the sweltering heat that he could feel emanating from his hand, he was completely unscathed, even as the arm of his chair began to warp and twist from where his hand had rested. Furthermore, he could _feel_ the power in that flame, flowing through every fiber of his being and calling for him to embrace it, to use it, to _worship_ it.

 ** _I am the answer to all your problems._**

"And how do you make that claim?" he demanded, voice thick with disbelief as his mind struggled to make sense of everything that was happening. His heart was pounding in his chest, feeling like it might burst if one more galaxy-shattering revelation were to occur.

 ** _Like this,_** the voice replied before plunging him into a series of images. He saw humanity ascending to its rightful place in the galaxy through the power of new technology that was a fusion of terrible energies and strange metals. He saw Space Marines of his own ensuring the safety of mankind's empire, patrolling the void between the stars in mighty warships that no other race in the galaxy could defeat. And above all, he saw himself, enshrined upon a golden throne that writhed with invisible power, made immortal by the power of science while all of humanity knelt before him. It was everything he ever wanted, shown in sequence. It was beautiful.

Then the visions subsided, and he knew for certain that all that he had just been shown would come to pass. If pressed, he would have been unable to truly articulate just how he was certain, but he knew within his heart that he could not, _would_ not, let this opportunity slip by him.

 ** _I can give you all this and more. You only need to do one simple thing for me._**

"What do you require of me?" he asked, voice raspy as he forced the words through a suddenly dry throat. Whatever this voice was, it obviously was not human, that much had been clear from the beginning of their conversation, but it was _very_ powerful. And was power not something that he had just admitted to needing? Right now, he would accept anything, no matter how otherworldly.

 ** _Obey._**

The Illusive Man glanced at his still-blazing hand, before looking back at the massive screen that continued to project the casualty lists from the Citadel operation, as well as the crippling supply shortages that threatened to ruin him in numerous other locations. "Very well," he said, taking a deep breath. He had no choice in the matter, it seemed. Besides, he had not gotten as far as he had by not taking advantage of every possibility granted to him, and this presented many new possibilities.

Another laugh, this time predatory and exultant, one that sent shivers down his spine with its sheer malevolence. **_Excellent._**

 _A/N: Once again, thank you for putting up with my lazy ass and reading this as I finally get around to finishing it up. This chapter underwent a few versions, so I'll use that as my excuse if anyone asks. Also, this chapter marks the beginning of a new arc, so yey._

 _Same deal as last time, anything that you're liking in particular so far?_


	13. We Slay Who We Wilt

_Chapter 12: We Slay Who We Wilt_

"Captain Nemros, a pleasure to meet you in person," came a crisp voice from his left. Turning, he saw an aging man dressed in Alliance colors and wearing a beret, who promptly saluted him. "Admiral Hackett informed me that you're the one who I'll be sharing this operation with. General William Mathias, at your service."

For his part, Nemros merely nodded back. "An honor, General. I assume you were also told just what we are planning on accomplishing here today?"

"Indeed. And if I may say so? It feels good to be doing this," said Mathias, gesturing towards the holomap that dominated the cruiser's briefing room. "No more running and hiding. It's time to strike back."

"Yes," he said, somewhat surprised at how fervently he agreed. But the more he gave it thought, the more it made sense. The battles against Cerberus had been an unpleasant necessity, but this operation? He could throw himself into it with zeal, knowing that this was what the Emperor had made the Space Marines for. There were no ambiguities to be found here. "Please, fill me on the details. I have read the initial reports provided by your Admiral Hackett, but I wish to hear your opinion on the matter. What can we expect during this?"

"Well Captain, to be frank beyond those reports we don't know a whole lot about the situation on Terra Nova. Most of our knowledge comes from before the invasion, making it unreliable, while what little we do know is exceedingly grim."

"Explain."

Mathias depressed a button on the circular panel surround the holomap, causing a bevy of information to begin appearing over the holographic projection of Terra Nova. "I've taken the liberty of marking out potential landing zones, but this map is, like I said, from before the invasion, so we have no idea if they've been thoroughly ruined by or are Reaper hot zones."

"We will see this through General, have no fear. There was, however, one thing that caught my eye in the reports. They mentioned a stealth frigate being dispatched to the planet?"

"Yes, Captain. Infiltrators from the _Falkirk_ were successful with meeting with the leaders of the largest band of resistance fighters on the planet, and have devised a plan for evacuating everyone that can make their way towards outskirts of the capital city, Scott," Mathias said as he gestured towards the holoprojector, the screen glowing red to indicate the city and its surrounding environs. "Unfortunately, the _Falkirk_ did not possess the necessary equipment to take planetary scans. My understanding is that such equipment would render their stealth technology pointless due to the nature of such scans."

"I see. And their best estimates as to how many might possibly end up making it to the evacuation zone?" Nemros asked as he glanced at the holoprojector, mind racing as he enhanced the topographical view to survey possible landing zones, natural chokepoints, and potential Reaper staging areas.

Mathias sighed, clearing not wanting to share the impending information. "And this is where the information becomes grim Captain."

The general fiddled with the holomap before proceeding, and the obvious urban areas were overlaid with a shade of black, while rural areas were designated in shades of either red or yellow. "Our best estimates place the potential survivor count at around ten thousand." Mathias' eyes flitted towards the location of Scott on the map. "We're assuming that everyone within a major urban center at the time of the invasion has been lost, either killed or indoctrinated, and Terra Nova had only a relatively minor amount of people living in the rural areas in comparison." A grimace, and a slight exhalation. Nemros took note of these before Mathias went on. "At worst, only a few thousand. No more than six."

"Six thousand," Nemros muttered, glancing at the holographic projector once more before turning back to Mathias. "Out of how many?" he dared to ask.

"Over four million," came the grim answer.

" _Throne_ ," he swore softly. So many humans dead, their souls lost forever beyond the embrace of the Emperor, and their forms most likely twisted into service of the Reapers. The thought that such blasphemy was hardly unique to this planet made the revelation even more unpalatable.

"It gets even worse, I'm afraid. The truth is that I don't have the capabilities to transport such a large number of bodies back to our ships, even if the worst case scenario come true. Even if we pack our Kodiaks to the absolute maximum, this evacuation will be slow, and every minute increases the risk of us being overrun on the ground, and gives the Reapers time to send more of themselves."

"Does the Alliance not have any larger transports than your shuttles?" Nemros asked, bewildered at the confession. Surely they had something, _anything_ , larger than those small, metal boxes!

"We do," explained the General, his tone becoming a mixture of frustrated and despondent. "But these days most of those have been impressed into theaters deemed more important, while every planet lost results in a decrease in our manufacturing capabilities. Soon, the Kodiaks might be all we have left, and precious few of those."

"And right now, they are all we have," finished Nemros gravely.

"Precisely. We're short on the necessary vehicles, missing much of our heavy weapons, and the forces detailed to my command are ad hoc, glued together from a dozen different shattered divisions."

Nemros was silent for a long moment, thoughts shifting and twisting around in his mind in response to this new information. By the General's description, it seemed as if this operation was doomed from before it could even begin, and he wondered if the Council and Admiral Hackett had not intentionally set him and his Brothers up for failure. After all, if they failed here, then they could try to force him to follow their agendas rather than his.

"All of these hindrances appear to be insurmountable, to be sure," he said. "And if you were tasked to do this yourself, perhaps they would be. But of what you just listed, we can provide both the vehicles and the weaponry, both of which, I assure, will be far more potent than anything you could have fielded yourself. As for the nature of your command, the proximity of certain death tends to force men to work together, lest they perish otherwise."

"That certainly does alleviate a substantial portion of our problems," admitted Mathias, "and we can gather more details on the surface once we are in orbit. All we need do then is to craft a general evacuation strategy and adjust accordingly to any new and upsetting details that may arise."

"Indeed General. Let us not waste any time then. With every passing minute, more and more humans perish that might otherwise have been saved."

"I couldn't agree more."

* * *

"I will be honest with you Captain, I question the wisdom of this operation. It is doubtful we will be able to evacuate the majority of the civilians present before the Reapers respond in force." expelled a frustrated Mathias after several hours of poring over equipment lists, evacuation plans, and force deployments. Several different forms of defenses and evacuation protocols had been introduced, critiqued, and discarded, leaving them no better off than they had been originally, and clearly the man had reached his limit. "There are no plans for a diversionary offense elsewhere, which means that they can arrive within hours after we push their fleet out of orbit. How many people will we be condemning to death that might have otherwise survived? Both soldiers and civilians?"

Nemros blinked slowly behind his helmet, still staring at the holoprojector while he mulled over the General's despairing question. It was not, he mused, an unfair one, even if it was a rather naively idealistic one. Much of the blame for this situation lay with the Council. These xenos who styled themselves as the rulers of the galaxy were running scared, as was their nature, hoping that they would be the last ones to be devoured by sacrificing their neighbors to the machines first. As a result, good humans, even if they were misguided and unenlightened to the truth, were left to suffer and forced to make choices that were difficult for them to accept, wallowing as they were in their moral naivety and uncertainty.

" _Life is the Emperor's currency. Spend it wisely,_ " Nemros intoned carefully, turning from the holoprojector to look at Mathias.

"I'm sorry, what?" asked Mathias, bewildered and startled out of his concentration.

"It is a saying amongst those who have been given the responsibility of leading men to their deaths in the Imperium. A reminder that death is an inevitability on the battlefield, and that said leaders must strive to give those deaths purpose, even when all seems hopeless."

Turning back to the projector, Nemros motioned toward the estimated casualty figures. "When I first heard those words, I was like you. Young and idealistic, hoping to make my mark on the galaxy. Then came my first deployment as a scout, on a world once known as Garathor Beta."

Instinctively he clenched his fist in response to that name. Memories swam unbidden to the forefront of his eidetic memory, of the sight of Imperial citizens butchered in their thousands by Ork blades, of hives burning and a relentless tide of green flesh that refused to wither away even under planetary bombardment. He shook his head and pressed onwards.

"What I saw was terrible, and it shook me. It still shakes me to this day. Many of my Brothers fell on that planet, and in the end, we saved only a precious few from there. Afterwards, I was angry, confused, questioning. Why had so many been sacrificed for so few? That was when my Captain at the time, Arathen, pulled me aside and spoke those words to me, explaining what they meant."

He glanced over to the General, seeing him drinking in his words intensely, a thoughtful expression on his face. "All human life is precious in the eyes of the Emperor, and it is for them that we lay down our lives. It is our purpose, our duty, what we left our mortal lives behind for. And while you may not be one of us, your duty, and the duty of the men who serve under you, is the same."

He looked back to the projector, gesturing at the number of estimated casualties once more. "It is likely that many will die, of that there should be no delusions. But every single soul we pull off that benighted planet will make their sacrifice worthwhile, for the alternative is to let them all die, their souls left to wander the Warp in pain and betrayal."

Mathias said nothing, gazing quietly at the projector for several moments. Finally, he nodded and turned away, looking back at him. "Thank you, Captain," he said softly, before diving back into where they had left off before. Nemros, for his part, did not acknowledge the mortal's words verbally, instead choosing to simply move to the man's side at the holographic table.

They still had much more to plan for.

* * *

"Contact," muttered Malthus from where he lay in front of Thram, visor fixed firmly behind his Stalker bolter's scope. His gray and black power armor was nearly impossible to distinguish from the shadowed crevice that his Brother had chosen to set up in.

"I see them," grunted Hrim disappointedly from his left side, shifting minutely as he inched forward for a better view. "Another group of husks. Hardly worth the effort."

"There are also two of those Brutes down there, and a small number of Marauders. You are getting sloppy Hrim," he chided with no real heat in his tone. They, along with several other kill teams, had been on this planet for nearly a week now, stealthily inserted by one of the Alliance's frigates to begin thinning the Reaper hordes while the fleet finished making the necessary arrangements for the impending operation. By this point, hundreds upon hundreds of kills later, Thram hoped that Nemros and the rest of his Brothers would arrive soon, if only so they could resupply.

Idly, he flicked the safety on his bolter off, shooting the Reaper pawns another quick glance.

"Auspex scans are returning clean Brother-Sergeant," reported Joh from behind him. "It is just this group."

"Good," he blinked twice, the machine spirit in his armor complying with the command. Target markers flickered into existence. "Malthus, target the Marauders. Joh, take the left Brute, I will take the right. Hrim, three round spread on the husks, then we will charge them. No sense in wasting any more ammo than we have to on these worthless scum."

"So, standard procedure then?" Hrim asked, angling his bolter towards his designated targets.

"Enough. Prepare to fire on my order."

The Reaper group moved closer and closer, slowly making their way towards the overhang on which they lay in wait. Lazily, Thram's eyes wandered away from the oncoming group to take in the world that they had been fighting on for the past several days. It must have been beautiful once, in its own way, but with these abominations crawling all over and despoiling the land all he could feel was disgust. Green foliage was in the process of giving way before black, tainted earth, which spread wherever these creatures tred. The planet was dying by degrees, and Thram had an eyewitness view to the tortuous process.

His eyes slid back to the Reaper creatures that were now close enough that they would be unable to respond in time to their strike. The gentle breeze that had danced across his armor, tickling the leaves above him into movement, died out, as if the world itself was holding its breath at the impending violence.

"Fire," he intoned after another moment, finger clenching slightly over his bolter's trigger as he spoke.

The sound of one bolter firing was deafening on its own, a thundering _crack_ of the bolter itself firing, followed by the _boom_ of the bolt shell's gyro jet engaging to propel the round to supersonic speeds. The sound of four such weapons firing simultaneously, especially when the sound waves were amplified by the solid walls of the rocky canyon that they were in, was loud enough that Thram wondered whether the Reapers in orbit had heard the discharge.

To his shame, his bolt missed his Brute's head, the creature having shifted at the last possible moment, instead speeding forward to burrow into the beast's shoulder before detonating in a squall of gore. He had a brief moment to observe the now-unattached arm skitter across the earth while the beast tumbled downwards to the ground. Then he was on his feet, bolter strapped to his thigh while his chainsword sprang to life, roaring vengeance at the creatures that dared attack humanity and poison their worlds. Behind him, he was aware of Joh and Hrim following him as he leapt down into the throng of cybernetic-riddled flesh, while another trio of sharp _crack-boom_ s informed him that Malthus was finishing off his targets before joining them.

The first husk he reached died in a heartbeat, the wretch still struggling to respond from the suddenness of the attack and the loss of the Marauder command creatures. The churning teeth of his sword rampaged through its withered body before appearing on the other side in a shower of bright blue viscera, leaving the husk halves to fall to the ground behind his charging form.

The fight was pitiful, as he had expected. The crippled Brute made a feeble swipe with its remaining arm, a blow that Hrim dodged with contemptuous ease before plunging his combat blade into its head, ending its twisted mockery of life. To his right, Malthus sent a fist forward, slamming it into the face of another husk. Atrophied flesh giving way before the force of the blow, and there was a momentary tearing sound before the ruined head was sent backwards through the air.

His chainsword flashed outwards, adamantium teeth gleaming hungrily in the day's dying sunlight. The machine spirit embedded within roared its pleasure as the final husk fell, chest a twisted ruin in the weapon's wake. With a glance, he took in the time on his helmet's chronometer. Twenty-nine seconds.

"Two point three seconds longer than the last group," he noted idly, turning to see Hrim wiping his combat blade clean on a nearby plant.

"You missed your target, I had to take the time to finish it off," the other Astartes responded. Thram could easily visualize the small grin that no doubt occupied his Brother's face underneath his helmet. "And you said I was becoming sloppy."

"Merely assisting you in keeping your skill with the blade honed," he retorted.

Hrim sheathed his combat blade, turning to face him fully. Before he could continue their light banter, however, Joh spoke up from where he stood in front of them. "Brother-Sergeant, I am receiving the designated signal from the _Shadow_."

Thram grunted, placing his chainsword back in its place on his armor's belt. "Verified?" he asked.

"Yes, Sergeant."

"Then we make for the rendezvous point. Send the acknowledgement ping," he said, waving Malthus over from his sentry position as he did.

"Sent. The _Shadow_ has received, and ETA to planetary orbit is two hours," Joh said after a moment, removing the signal booster from his armor's power pack and powering it down.

"Then let us not waste any time. The Chapter has need us," Thram said, turning away from the massacre, his squad falling in behind him as he did. "Stay alert. There is no telling if whether or not our transmissions were intercepted."

"Understood," came the unanimous reply, and together they set off deeper into the wilderness of a dying world.

* * *

Beneath his feet, the command deck of the _Shadow_ jostled as the ship exploded from the Warp, the tear in reality closing reluctantly behind them, crackling with unnatural energies as it did. As soon as they were clear of the rift, the ship's engines began powering up, propelling the kilometers long vessel towards the blue and green marble hanging in space.

Faintly, straining his enhanced sight to the maximum, he thought he could spy black specks that hung in orbit over the pristine world below them, taunting him with the knowledge that no matter how many humans they saved here today, there were countless more still suffering elsewhere across the galaxy outside of their reach, condemned to suffer and die at the hands of these abominable machines.

He had not tolerated such actions before, not when the forces of Chaos had sought to spread their ruinous taint wherever they went, nor when the hordes of xenos threatened to wash over the Imperium in an endless tide. Though he was no longer defending the Imperium and the Emperor that he had sworn his eternal service to, he could still do the same for this humanity.

"Confirmed, Lord," came the voice of an ensign detailed to the ship's comm systems, interrupting his train of thought. "All kill teams have successfully reported in and are moving to designated rendezvous points."

"Good. Shipmaster, status on the enemy fleet?"

"Two of the type designated _Sovereign_ -class, three destroyers, and one troop transport. The warships are turning to face us, while the transport is moving away from the planet," came Davriel's mechanical report.

"So quick to flee when something capable of fighting back appears. Possibility of intercept on the transport?"

"Negative. Estimated time to intercept would leave the Alliance fleet vulnerable by the time we caught and destroyed it."

Nemros grunted in frustration. "Very well, let it go. Weapons?"

"Tech-priests are reporting that the plasma projectors are warming up, and will be ready to fire within acceptable standards," came the report of another ensign. Kathern, if he remembered correctly, a Chapter Serf and former Aspirant. "Macro-cannons are loading; no complications are being reported."

"Status of the torpedo tubes?"

"Two on the port side and one on the starboard are operational. The tech-priests are still working to repair the damage the daemons did, but they are reporting that some of the damage is beyond their capabilities to fix."

"Tell them to keep working then. Abstain from using the torpedoes in this battle, I suspect we will need them later rather than sooner."

"Understood my lord, message sent and received. Is there anything else?"

"No Shipmaster, I leave the rest in your capable hands and battle-tested abilities."

Davriel did not reply to that, at least not verbally. Instead, he turned away and began giving out orders to the command deck crew. For his part, Nemros closed his eyes and lost himself in his thoughts, mentally reviewing and adjusting the plans for the upcoming battle. Names of battle brothers and their placement in the order of battle began filtering through. He knew that he would need all of them planetside for this, even Vargus, whose unspoken problems were worrying him more and more with each passing day. But even as problematic as the Epistolary was becoming, he was still a psyker of not inconsiderable power, power that would prove incalculably useful.

He blinked, and was surprised to see his helmet's chronometer telling him that more than an hour had passed, and Terra Nova had become significantly larger than he remembered it being. Likewise, the Reapers, though still separated by hundreds of thousands of kilometers, were now close enough that he did not need to strain himself to see them. The time for battle, it seemed, was upon them.

"Shipmaster," he said, turning away from the command oculus and towards the raised dais upon which sat the _Shadow_ 's command throne.

"Yes, my Lord?" asked Davriel, turning away from the ensign that had been delivering one last status report to him.

He raised his hand, pointing towards the shapes of the Reapers, little more than black blobs against the backdrop of green and blue, which were now hurrying to reach the _Shadow._ "Do you see that fleet?" he queried rhetorically, knowing full well that the man could. The sight granted to the Shipmaster by the _Shadow_ 's machine spirit was far superior even to his own enhanced eyesight.

"Of course, my Lord."

 _"_ _I do not want to."_

To his everlasting credit, there was no hesitation in his response. "Understood my Lord."

* * *

Deep in the recesses of his mind, Shipmaster Davriel wondered idly as to whether he should be concerned at the rate of attrition they were facing in this new galaxy. Rushing from one battle to the next resulted in many dead enemies of the Emperor, to be sure, but it also had the detrimental effect of leaving one's munition stores distressingly empty. Without a forge world to resupply at, it would not take long at this rate before they were forced to rely on ramming and the _Shadow_ 's planetary bombardment cannon to do their killing rather than their dedicated ship-to-ship weaponry.

A sudden flash of movement from the Reapers dragged him away from his thoughts and back towards the unfolding battle. It took him a moment to recognize the maneuver, but when the black shapes suddenly reappeared, this time much closer, it clicked.

Calculated jumps. Understandable, given what he had read on Reaper tactics during their stay at the Citadel. The weapons utilized by the machines were relatively close ranged, and the abominations had a proclivity to ram their enemies nearly as much as they destroyed them from a distance. An excellent tactic against the Citadel races that desperately needed all the time and distance they could to hammer the machines from afar.

Tragically, at least for the Reapers, they were not facing the archaic warships used by the xenos. One of the _Sovereign_ -class Reapers had emerged from its jump in the perfect position to receive a full broadside from the starboard weapons. He sent the order to open fire racing through his thoughts, where it was interpreted by his command implants and transmitted to his command throne. From there, the order was sent racing through the bowels of the ship until it reached the relevant sections.

Beneath him, the _Shadow_ rumbled, its vast and infinitely complex machine spirit expressing its disgust at the twisted product of forbidden sciences that had by now realized its fatal mistake and was desperately attempting to move out of the way.

It never had the chance. Macro-shells powerful enough to level hive cities and great masses of plasma hot enough to liquify mountain ranges raced from their respective gun ports and slammed across the hull of the Reaper. Kinetic barriers failed in less than a heartbeat and black hull plating buckled for naught more than a brief second before giving way completely, and one tendril was shorn off completely by an errant macro-shell. In the end, the Reaper less exploded and more simply vanished from the galaxy, an enormous fireball erupting from superheated plasma eating its way through to the eezo core and consuming it.

Davriel, capable of seeing every detail of the rapidly expanding ball of flame in great detail through the _Shadow_ 's augur array, relished every second of it. The sight of the destruction was intoxicating to behold, the vast bloodthirst of the machine spirit mixing with his righteous glee to form a potent cocktail that threatened to send him spiraling into a frenzy.

A red beam of hydromagnetic metal slicing across the void shields drew his attention back to the fight, his flesh body frowning as he was dragged away from the sensations and back into rationality.

"Status of the void shields," he demanded. He doubted the attack did much damage, but it still helped him gauge the strength of their enemy's weapons.

"Void shields steady at 71%," came the faint report from one of the ensigns, sitting at her duty station in the lowered pit that surrounded the command dais. Her voice sounded as if he were hearing her underwater. "No unusual signs of stress, recharging commencing in ten seconds."

A mere four percent? Pitiful. Still, he had not survived as long as he had by becoming overconfident. Very much unlike the Reaper destroyer that had been responsible for launching the attack.

It was sat directly in front of the _Shadow_ , showing that it was determined not to make the mistake that it's formerly larger kin had made by avoiding the gun ports. However, in doing so, it made another mistake, this one just as fatal.

A warship of the Imperium was a weapon in every aspect. Beyond the obvious weaponry that could lash out over tens of thousands of kilometers were the void shields that could disable entire squadrons of strike craft simply by being raised, their unique nature causing them to bristle and snap outwards with tendrils and waves of electromagnetic energy. And beyond even that was the sheer mass and size of the ship itself.

The Reaper, by placing itself in front of the battle barge, had thrown itself into the path of a very large and very heavily armored glacier that even now was accelerating, engines blazing mightily as they strained to push seven and a half kilometers of adamantium through the void. Like it's deceased kin, it pushed itself to move out of the way of the humongous ad hoc projectile that was bearing down upon it, and like the other Reaper, it failed to do so, the _Shadow_ 's oversized engines rapidly accelerating. There was a brief rumble as the abominable intelligence splattered all over the front end of the void shields before the _Shadow_ pushed past the remaining wreckage.

The remainder of the fight was brief. The Reapers had arrogantly underestimated their foe and were now paying the price for it. The other _Sovereign_ -class was torn to pieces by a trio of macro-shells that cored the machine before exploding, causing it to burst outward like the galaxy's largest frag grenade, while the remaining two Reaper destroyers attempted to flee but were obliterated well before they could make it out of range.

Mildly disappointed that the vaunted Reapers had failed to put up anything nearing an appreciable fight, Davriel began the disconnection rituals that would release him from the grip of the _Shadow_ 's machine spirit and allow him to focus fully upon the world around him. As he came to, he gasped, closing his eyes at the feeling of sensations running up and down him once more.

"Well done, Shipmaster," came the voice of Captain Nemros from nearby.

"Thank you, my lord," he answered, forcing his eyelids open so he could look respectfully at the superhuman warrior.

"I will be in the strategium, finalizing our evacuation plan. Inform me when the Alliance vessels arrive in system," the Captain said as he turned to leave the command deck, gray and black power armor propelling gene-forged flesh out of his sight.

"Understood," he said, turning back to gaze at the planet that lay before him.

 _A/N: IT LIVESSSS._

 _Once again, thanks for sticking with this story and for all the reviews, favorites, and follows. This story has become much more popular than I ever thought it would be, and that is quite frankly humbling._


	14. Let the Emperor Judge

_Chapter 13: Let the Emperor Judge_

There was, Joh thought as he listlessly watched the oncoming Reaper horde as it slowly waded its way across burned and desolate farmlands toward him, an unusual type of beauty in silence. It was subtle, not at all like the soaring tones found within an Ecclesiarchy cathedral, ancient hymns and prayers being sung and chanted by tens of thousands of the faithful, or the bestial roars of a finely-honed chainsword that howled its thirst for blood to the skies. Rather, it was a beauty that could only be found in self-reflection and meditation, and a beauty that was not shattered, but rather amplified when supplanted by the resounding clamor that could only be found in the roar of a bloody and war-torn battlefield.

It was a rare type of beauty as well. Even with his eidetic memory, he could remember only a few times that he had been able to drink in this type of silence. Usually the company deployed into the thick of battle via drop-pods and aerial insertion, with no time to reflect beforehand. It made this moment even more poignant. And despite the sounds of thousands of beings and machines behind him, the silence endured regardless.

"How many do you think are out there?" came a voice from behind him, distorted by helmet speakers. Hrim, given the distinct undertones of bloodthirst and the relishing of an impending challenge, noticeable even through the growling static produced by power armor vox grills. Sergeant Thram was far calmer and collected, as his rank demanded, while Malthus tended to prefer what he could observe himself and would not be asking him such a question.

A slight turn confirmed his thoughts. "I know not," he responded, before casting his eyes back towards the blasphemous forms that lurched ever closer. "Thousands, tens of thousands, what difference does it make?" He shrugged in response to his own question, before continuing. "We have our duty. That is enough for me, as it should be for you. Besides," he nodded once in approval, "we have already drawn first blood. They are no match for us, especially not on open ground like this."

Hrim grunted, before coming to a halt beside him. "This will not be easy," he conceded after a long moment of silence.

"We will win," countered Joh assuredly.

A scoff. "Of course we will. No twisted abominations can stand before us," said Hrim, sounding affronted. "But this would be much simpler if we were not denied our usual orbital support."

Joh bit back a groan, though only barely. None of his Brothers had taken the Alliance's demand that they not commence bombardment upon this world well, young and brash Hrim perhaps least of all. "They have their reasons," he said neutrally, even though he disagreed with them just as much as his Brothers.

"No. No they do not," came the immediate, expected, response. "They lack the will to do what is necessary to win, naively hoping that we will win a clean victory here, allowing them to feel like heroes while still appearing morally pure in the eyes of their xenos allies. That Captain Nemros would bow to their will disgusts me."

"Careful Brother," Joh growled, a note of ferocity simmering just below the surface. "What you speak is dangerously close to treason."

"Yet it is not. It is the truth."

"No," Joh snarled, fully turning around this time. "You speak far too rashly, Brother. I will forgive your folly this time, in light of your relatively short duration as a battle-brother, but do not speak so again."

Hrim, even hidden behind the snarling mask that completed his war-plate, was visibly taken aback. Silence reigned for a long moment as Joh let his words fully sink in, before deigning to continue. "Nemros will not accede to such a request, and you are foolish to think otherwise." A pause, and he let his voice soften slightly. "Have faith in the Captain, Brother. He will see us through this."

There was another stretch of silence as he turned back around to gaze once more upon the encroaching abominations. After a half minute, Hrim drew up next to him to watch as well.

"You are right," he conceded softly. "I was frustrated, and let my emotions speak for me rather than my mind."

Joh sighed gustily, shoulders slackening a fraction. "You are not completely wrong in your assessment, but do not slander your Brothers so. Trust in them completely, or else everything will fall apart."

"I understand."

The pair watched as another line of refugees straggled into the makeshift camp behind them, hearing the shouted commands of the Alliance officers and soldiers as they attempted to maintain some semblance of order. This had been going on for well over a day, with little changing over all. Whoever still lived and could reach here stumbled in, desperate to find a way out of the living hell that their lives had become, and the Alliance forces did their best to provide aid and prevent the camp from collapsing into a miasma of fear and hopelessness. All the while he and his Brothers watched, ever vigilant for the inevitable Reaper onslaught.

"How many do you think?" Hrim asked after a moment of watching the controlled chaos.

He did not ask his Brother to clarify, already knowing what he meant. "No more than two thousand," Joh responded, eyes never leaving the Reapers as they slowly, steadily, inched their way forwards, coming every closer to the fortifications that the Alliance combat engineers were still putting into place. "At the rate at which we are evacuating them, combined with the amount of these disgusting creatures approaching us, I expect that we will only be able to save half of these souls."

"Careful Brother, you are starting to sound like Manswell. Keep that sort of talk up, and we will have to ship you off to Mars and let the tech-priests have their way with you."

There was a note of dull resignation buried underneath his Brother's jest, but he did not deign to chastise him for it. He was no hypocrite.

"It is shameful," he agreed. "If we were at full strength, then there would be no question about our ability to hold them off long enough. As it is…"

"As it is, our Brothers are gone, returned to the Emperor's side, as will be our fate one day," came a voice from behind them. "May we meet our ends with the same dignity as they did."

Turning, they saw the skull-mask and ebony war-plate of an Astartes Chaplain. "Brother Xeras," Joh said respectfully, bowing his head briefly in deferment at the other Astartes' seniority.

Xeras nodded in reply before shifting his gaze past them, taking in the sight of the handfuls of xenos intermingling with the masses of humanity. "Shameful, is it not? To see humans debasing themselves so? One wonders if we are not better served by simply withdrawing to orbit and cleansing this location with holy fire."

"Perhaps," Joh conceded after a moment. Surprisingly, Hrim remained silent. Perhaps he had taken his rebuke to heart.

There was a _hiss_ of escaping air as the Chaplain depressurized his helmet, removing it to look at him with keen, penetrating eyes. "Perhaps, you say Brother?" Xeras asked, an unrecognizable glint in the ice blue chips that were his eyes.

Joh cast a glance at the aliens as well, thankful for the excuse to look away. Space Marines knew no fear, but Xeras' zeal was legendary amongst the Fifth Company, second only to Captain Nemros' in battle. The strength of the other Astartes' will could occasionally be overwhelming, even to one such as him. "The xenos disgust me just as much as they do you, Chaplain," he said carefully. "But these humans, I question how harshly we can judge them in light of their ignorance."

"Entire civilizations burned during the Crusade for the sin of co-existing with the alien, and have been since," Xeras said sternly, hard eyes never leaving him. "Are you saying that an exception should be made for this one? That we should defy the decrees of the Emperor?" Here the other Astartes' tone took a dangerous turn, and beside him Hrim glanced between the two of them nervously.

"No. I say that because those societies stubbornly refused to learn the lessons of Old Night," Joh countered firmly, forcing his voice not to waver in the slightest. "They were shown the perfidy of the alien, lived through their atrocities, and still they shut their eyes to it all. Their willing blindness was a danger to humanity, which was teetering on the brink at the time of the Crusade. But these humans?" he asked, gesturing with a hand sweep towards another wave of transports lifting away from the planet towards the ships awaiting in orbit. "They are still young. Innocent. Residents of an age that is entirely different from ours. Our innocence died millennia even before the Emperor revealed Himself, and the only danger they pose is to themselves."

Xeras stared at him for a long moment, silently judging his thoughts and words. He wondered if he had gone too far, said too much, but such thoughts had been bothering him ever since they had first realized that they were no longer in the time of the Imperium.

"You have given this much thought, I see," the Chaplain said finally.

"I have," he said simply.

"You are not wrong, and Captain Nemros and I agree with you. Such foolishness is appalling, but understandable. Furthermore, it is fixable. The time will come when we will redeem them from their naivety," Xeras said, placing the helmet back over his head. "It is good to know that you think as we do. Your voice will be crucial in convincing the others to follow this course of action."

Whatever he was going to say in reply was lost as the Chaplain suddenly raised his bolt pistol at him and fired once, twice. For a moment he somewhat foolishly wondered if the Chaplain had suddenly decided that what he had spoken was heresy and was punishing him for such treachery. Then he blinked, his mind catching up as he realized that the two shots had sailed over his shoulder past him. He spun around, twin hearts still thundering in his ears, just in time to see a pair of husks fall to the ground headless.

"Stragglers," Xeras sneered in disgust, lowering his pistol. "Their force has no cohesion, and their forward elements must be making initial contact now."

As if on cue, several types of weapons began firing all over the perimeter, only to die down a few seconds later. The battle was upon them, no more than a few minutes away.

"Rejoin your squad," Xeras ordered, pulling his crozius from where it hung at his waist into his hand. "It is time to cleanse our doubts with righteous fury, and make these abominations understand the meaning of pain."

"Understood, Brother," Joh said, motioning for Hrim to follow as he did, and the pair of them made their way past several dashing mortals to reach the distant forms of Thram and Malthus.

* * *

 _"_ _Brother-Captain," came a distant tone to his right, voice echoing off empty buildings and piles of rubble. It was a strong voice, had to be, in order to be heard over the growling of Predator tanks and snarling Rhino APCs as they delved further into the alien hive. One of the Sergeants, no doubt come to deliver his report in person._

 _Turning, he could see the blood-spattered figure drawing closer, stepping over a pair of Tau corpses in order to reach him, booting aside one of their foul weapons in the process. "Sergeant Nemros," he said in way of greetings. "What is the situation in your sector?"_

 _"_ _The aliens are falling back, deeper into the city, and most of their armor and heavy support has been destroyed," the younger Sentinel said, pointing off down the wide road, past the crumbling wreckage of several buildings. "Their human," here he spat, as if the word was foul in his mouth, "auxiliaries are largely decimated, and what few remain alive are mostly surrendering."_

 _"_ _Good," he nodded contently. "What is the status of your squad?"_

 _"_ _Brother Valim is dead, sadly. Two of their battlesuits caught us in a crossfire and penetrated his armor before we could reach cover. I have tagged his location for gene-seed recovery by the Apothecaries."_

 _"_ _And the rest?"_

 _"_ _Minor injuries, nothing that the Apothecaries need worry over. Brother Thram has acquitted himself well so far, for one so recently promoted from the Scout cadre. There is potential within him, I believe."_

 _"_ _Very good then Sergeant. Link up with Epsilon and Hades squads and support their advance towards the main plaza. The bulk of the remaining resistance is falling back to there, and we must-"_

 _A pause. What was he going to say?_

 _"_ _We must-"_

 _No, this was not right. This was not how it had been. There had been no hesitation, no need for repeating his orders. What was happening?_

 _"_ _Honored Brother."_

 _How could he forget? It had not been that long!_

 _"_ _Honored Brother."_

 _His moments of glories. The great battles that he had fought in. The worlds he had conquered. The worlds he had burned. The citations and honors he had earned. All of them were drifting away, so tantalizingly close to his mind's grasp, yet so far away. He was degrading, becoming little more than a mindless weapon, to be awoken and unleashed before sealed away once more. He was…_

 ** _"_** ** _Honored Brother."_**

Entombed deep within the sarcophagus of his Dreadnought, the half-destroyed body of a Marine, kept alive by amniotic fluid it floated in and the dozens of cables implanted in its withered flesh, blinked, dragged out of the mists of tattered and half-remembered memories by the insistent voice that sounded from his side.

Arathen, that was who he was. Arathen. How could he have forgotten so simple? How much had his recent slumber and awakening damaged him? Arathen, he thought repeatedly, Arathen Arathen Arathen. A desperate mantra chanted within his mind to stave off any further loss.

"Are you alright, Ancient Arathen?" came a monotone voice interspersed with static and blurts of binary to his left.

A _whirr_ as his chassis rotated to face the speaker. Who was this, who wore the red of Mars across his armor and the heraldry of the Chapter on his shoulder? Rothul, who had stood alongside him while they had burned a dozen and a half worlds? No, that could not be. Rothul had fallen on a nameless world, butchered by an Eldar ambush a century ago. He felt as if he knew this Marine's name only a matter of hours ago, only for there to be a resounding gap in his memory now.

 **"** **No, Brother Manswell,"** he said, the name coming back in a flash, memories slowly sliding into place. **"No, I am not alright."**

"Troubles with your Dreadnought frame?" the techmarine queried, a mechadendrite snaking its way forward from his back and towards Arathen. It split from its solid form into a dozen, smaller tendrils of circuitry, each one bobbing and weaving as they made their way inside his machine body's framework. "State the nature of your problem, we cannot afford difficulties in the upcoming battle."

 **"** **No, Brother. Not that kind of problem."**

The mechadendrites withdrew, regrouping and reforming back into a whole. "Identify," Manswell said curtly.

 **"** **I am forgetting."**

And there it was. The unspoken, yet inevitable, fate of all who were forced into a Dreadnought sarcophagus. To slumber through the passage of years until awoken by the Chapter in times of need, the occupants slowly losing more and more of the warriors that they had once been until one day they were awoken and were naught more than mindless brutes, whereupon they would quietly be given the Emperor's peace. Arathen had always known this, but had thought that he would fall in glorious battle, gaping rents torn in his adamantium framework as he spat defiance at the enemies of the Emperor, long before such an event would occur. To forget…the thought filled him with a deep-seated dread and loathing.

He would not die an empty husk, wasted away into nothingness by the barely understood mechanisms within his sarcophagus. He was Arathen, former Brother-Captain of the Iron Sentinels. He had fought in hundreds of battles and dozens of campaigns. Thousands had fallen by his own hands, and much glory had been brought to the Chapter by his command. He would _not_ die ignobly.

Manswell's augmetics clattered away noisily as he reached forward with his mechadendrites once more. "I can attempt to commune with the spirit of your sarcophagus, try to coax its memory banks back into-"

 **"** **No,"** he interrupted. **"My time is approaching its end, and I do not fear my doom. If this state is how the Emperor has deemed that I must spend my remaining years, then so it shall be."**

The mechadendrites fell. "Very well, if that is what you wish Ancient. Captain Nemros was attempting to contact you, but you were unresponsive to his vox hails. I was sent to ensure that all of your systems were still operating at one hundred percent efficiency"

So that was why the Techmarine had interrupted him. **"I see. And what is it that the whelp wants now?"**

If the irreverent title fazed Manswell, and he severely doubted that it did, the Marine did not show it. "He requests that your presence be shifted away from this sector, over to the western fortifications. The Reaper strength approaching there is greater than previously anticipated, and he requires you to bolster the mortals stationed there."

Perhaps he would die here then, underneath the teeth and claws of these abominations. It would not be the most glorious ending, but it outshone the alternative by far. **"Very well then, if that is what is required then I shall go."**

* * *

Sergeant Kalios rocketed down to the earth, the thunder of bolt fire echoing all around him as his jump pack screamed its eagerness to enter the fray. Mavril and Arafel slammed down onto the ground beside him, the force of their bodies impacting the dirt unsteadying the Reaper creatures all around them. Kalios took a fraction of a second to observe the blasphemous forms scattered around the trio of Assault Marines that had just landed in their midst.

Ravagers, the Alliance report had called them. Twist and mutated from an insectoid hivemind race known as the Rachni, they carried twin cannons capable of blasting fortifications and vehicles apart under the weight of their sustained fire. Given time, they could even puncture through Astartes war-plate, reaching through to the gene-forged flesh beneath.

And for that, they had to die. Even beyond the sin of their mere existence, the threat that they potentially posed to him and his Brothers was too great to allow them to exist any longer than it took for him to draw his weapon.

His chosen victim let out a chittering, mechanical howl, madness inherent within every decibel as he plunged the tip of his power spear into its bloated body. The power field surrounding the blade burned away corrupted flesh and twisted organs, while the adamantium tip erupted from the opposite in a torrent of black ichor. Beside him, Arafel slammed his chainaxe down upon another one of the creatures, alien flesh easily giving way beneath a hundred churning teeth that hungrily devoured it, while Mavril blasted a cannon clean off his target with his bolt pistol, leaving the beast to scream its hatred impotently at him before his chainsword put it out of its misery.

Kalios snarled in hatred, impaling another Ravager clean through with another thrust of his spear. Despite the large amounts of censoring and data cover-ups on the Alliance document, they had been no match for the skills of a Techmarine, and Manswell had been able to provide them all with an unfiltered look at why these beasts were free to cause such ruin.

 _Shepard._ The very same human that had begged for them to come to the aid of humanity was also the cause for these creatures that stood before him, each one responsible for the deaths of Emperor only knew how many humans. The thought disgusted him, dancing about his mind and taunting him with the knowledge that they were aiding an architect of humanity's woes, forcing him to swallow a gobbet of searing acid that his Betcher's Gland instinctively produced in response to his revulsion. He had known that this humanity had a naïve streak, but the depths this so-called hero sank to was unheard of. Even the champions of the Ruinous Powers had as little to do with xenos as possible.

Should any of these Ravagers be responsible for the death of one of his Brothers, he swore internally as he killed his way through another knot of the beasts, power spear gleaming maliciously as it darted out to impale another creature, then he would hunt Shepard to the edge of the universe and exact his bloody revenge.

The trio of Astartes fought, continuing their rampage through the Reaper forces as more and more creatures rushed into the fray, hoping to drag them down. A Brute charged into their midst, knocking Mavril off his feet, but before it could finish off the fallen Astartes, Kalios and Arafel were there, their weapons tearing it apart.

"My thanks," Mavril grunted as he hauled himself to his feet, blasting a husk apart with his pistol as he did so.

"Of course, Brother," Kalios said before activating his vox-bead. "Captain Nemros," he spoke, knowing that the other Astartes could hear him in orbit. "Objective complete. Beginning search and destroy pattern."

 _"_ _Negative, Brother. Return to evac zone immediately,"_ came the unexpected reply.

"What?" he blurted out incredulously, jump pack flaring frustratedly as it was denied its chance to soar through the skies once again.

 _"_ _There's been a perimeter breach,"_ Nemros explained curtly. _"Several Brutes managed to breach a section of the Alliance fortifications, and while the majority of the creatures are dead, there are still some killing the refugees. You and your squad must kill them and seal the gap until I can divert reinforcements to your sector."_

Kalios groaned. Mortals. "Understood," he voxed reluctantly, destination marker appearing on his helmet's visor as he gestured to his Brothers. Jump packs roared once more as the Astartes were propelled over the raging battlefield and back towards the tiny knot of humanity amongst the tidal wave of corrupted flesh.

Several jumps later, the found themselves amid ruined fortifications and the slain bodies of two dozen Alliance soldiers. They had clearly died well, if the ruined forms of over a hundred Reaper thralls littering the approach to their position were any indication. Kalios gave the unmoving forms a brief, respectful nod before leaving Arafel and Mavril to hold the breach while he hunted down the rampaging creatures.

They were not particularly hard to find, all things considered. The Assault Marine simply followed the trail of broken human and xenos bodies until the trail of carnage came to an end. Most of the creatures were already dead, slain by a handful of defiant Alliance soldiers that had reached them before him, but one last Brute remained standing, tossing several them around as if they were nothing.

The sight made his blood boil in rage. This mindless beast thought it was free to slaughter as it pleased, heedless of the holy human blood it shed underneath its claws? It thought it was worthy of being considered a true threat to the continued survival of mankind? Such arrogance, such twisted, _infuriating,_ arrogance!

He let out a wordless howl, the sound corrupted into a terrifying snarl by his helmet's vox-grill, as his rage bubbled over, capturing the Brute's attention. It turned from the Alliance soldiers, heedless of the fire that they poured into its distracted frame, intent on breaking him just as it had broken the mortals that had stood against it. Kalios never gave it the chance.

He launched himself forward, covering the distance in moments as his power spear gleamed with the light of his fury. He plunged it through the Brute's head, bright blue and deep black fluid gushing from around the weapon's entry point as it rammed through the creature's body without resistance, severing vital cyber connections and delicate organs alike. The Brute mewled piteously, the last remnants of its twisted mind desperately trying to understand how it had been defeated so quickly before giving up, the massive body collapsing to the ground.

Kalios withdrew his spear, disgusted at how easily had died despite the death and suffering it had left in its wake. Part of him wanted to plunge his weapon into its corpse over and over, screaming his hate for it until his voice was hoarse. The rest of him, the sensible part, kept his limbs and throat in check. Instead, he turned to the surviving Alliance soldiers, who looked at him with something akin to awe in their eyes, with the barest shade of resentment behind the emotion. It was understandable to Kalios, as counterintuitive as it might have been. If he had been able to kill the creature so easily, they no doubt thought, then where had he been earlier?

"Who is in command here?" he asked.

That shook them out of their momentary stupor. One of them stepped forward in response. "That Brute killed the Sergeant, so I guess its me now," the man, a corporal if his understanding of the man's insignia was correct.

Turning halfway, Kalios gestured back towards the way he had come. "Take your men and follow me then. We must keep-"

 _"_ _Brothers,"_ came Nemros' voice over the vox unexpectedly, cutting him off mid-order. _"Begin phased withdrawal as per your orders. I will not tolerate any objections. Nemros, out."_

"Change of plans," he said grimly after a moment of processing the message.

* * *

Nemros watched the strategium's holo-screen in rage, seeing the shapes of dozens of Reapers emerging from the system's edge. According to the projections that were being fed to him by the _Shadow_ 's bridge crew, it was still a matter of hours until the abominable intelligences were within weapons range, but the amount of time needed for the Alliance to pull their soldiers off the planet combined with the grim task that was necessary afterwards meant that every last minute was precious.

"Mathias," he spoke into the vox, knowing that the Alliance general was being informed of the arrival of the machines by his own command staff. "It is time, begin staged evacuation of your troops as we planned."

 _"_ _We still have time,"_ came the mortal's voice in reply, almost desperate in tone. _"We can still evacuate more civilians, we just need to hold on a little while longer."_

"No, general. At this rate the evacuation zone will be overrun in minutes, and we cannot protect your ships should the Reapers reach us sooner than projected. It is time to leave this planet."

 _"_ _But-"_ Mathias attempted once more.

 _"_ _Now, general,"_ Nemros snarled before forcibly closing the link. He glared at the metallic forms that the holo-screen showed moving towards him and the Alliance fleet, hating them for making him feel so impotent. Had they not been forced to play the role of protector, the _Shadow_ could have defeated them without any true difficulty, and the Reapers undoubtedly knew it.

Alas, then, that he and his Brothers had been forced into such a position. Though it burned him to do so, he opened a vox channel to his Brothers planetside.

"Brothers," he spoke carefully, restraining his fury as he did. "Begin phased withdrawal as per your orders. I will not tolerate any objections. Nemros, out."

With the order sent, he sighed, knowing that now that their forces were retreating, thousands of civilians would be left defenseless. He had not discussed this next part with Mathias, knowing that the man would object vociferously, but Davriel knew and would obey, regardless of any personal feelings.

Mentally, he opened one last vox link to the Shipmaster, mind flashing to thoughts of Arthan Prime, the place where everything had begun to go so wrong.

"Shipmaster," he spoke wearily. His rage had subsided temporarily, and now was the time only for regrettable necessity. "You know what to do."

 _"_ _Understood,"_ Davriel said, the _Shadow_ shuddering in response to the Shipmaster's words as it moved from its position to one closer to the planet. _"Moving into planetary bombardment position now. The Emperor protects."_

With that, the strategium was silent once more, the quiet only broken by the soft hum of the cogitators within. "The Emperor protects," whispered Nemros.

* * *

Two boys watched from the shadows as Alliance Kodiaks began lifting off to the sky once more, this time not filled to the brim with desperate refugees but with grim-faced soldiers. Around them came the panicked and despairing shouts countless people that the two of them had come to know over the past few days as they had stumbled their way here. There was old man Daniels, who had shared some of his meager food supplies with them when they had been starving, staring at the sky with a forlorn look in his eyes as their last hope left them behind. Near him was Miss Volson, sobbing into her hands as her brother tried to comfort her in vain.

"Why?" asked the second boy to the first, as if he held some sort of secret knowledge as to why they were being left to die by the soldiers who had only a brief time ago been fighting to defend them. "Why are they leaving us?"

"I don't know," said the first boy, shrugging his shoulders, his eyes elsewhere. The second boy turned and looked, following his gaze. A small group of the massive figures that wore the strange black and gray-colored armor were boarding a transport of their own, a massive brick of a thing with short stubby wings.

"C'mon," the first boy said, pulling on the second's elbow as he began making his way forward.

"They won't take us," whined the second as he struggled to keep up. "They're gonna leave us too, just like the soldiers did."

"Then we'll have to just sneak on board," said the first, ignoring the second boy's muted protests and sounds of distress as he continued to move forward.

"How?" a single syllable, laden with desperation and hope.

"I dunno, alright!" snapped the first, uncertainty clear in his voice. "Just follow me, ok? I don't want to stay here any more than you do."

"Ok," whimpered the second in response.

The journey forward was agonizingly slow. For every step they took, another person seemed to come between them and the massive soldiers, between them and freedom. Some they darted around, some they pushed aside as best they could. Eventually they reached the machine just as the soldiers were entering and the ramp was beginning to ascend.

"C'mon! Before they leave!" shouted the first boy over the piercing shriek of the machine's engines.

Practically hauling the other boy with him, he jumped up onto the ramp and dashed as fast as he could into the hold of the machine, only to come face to face with the soldiers who that they had seen before.

"And who," asked one from behind a snarling war-mask of metal, "are you?"

The two of them shrunk back, before the first one managed to screw up a spark of courage and stand up straight. "My name is Thomas, and this is Caleb," he said falteringly.

He went to continue, but found his mouth dry in the presence of the soldiers – no, these gods among men. Thomas had watched them fight, and seen them destroy the Reapers effortlessly. He knew what he and Caleb wanted, and freedom was only part of that.

"We want to be like you," he managed to say before his mouth decided on its own to stop working.

The figure that had spoken to them walked forward, ignoring the jolts and bumps that accompanied the turbulence that the ship was now experience with ease. With a deft motion, he removed his helmet, revealing a hardened face covered in scars. He stared at them for a long moment, as if judging every last aspect of the two boys that had stumbled upon him.

"Perhaps," he rumbled finally, straightening back up in the process. "Perhaps."

 _A/N: A rather quick update, but I recently re-watched the Helsreach animated series on Youtube again and was inspired. If you have no idea what that is, then drop whatever it is you're doing and go watch it. It's amazing. You can find the prologue here:_ _/watch?v=1D4jr-0_COg_

 _Also, this story hit 100 reviews last chapter, which is pretty damn awesome. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, even if it was only once. I live for those things more than an Emperor's Children lives for his cocaine made from hookers._


	15. The Righteousness Of Our Deeds

_Chapter 14: The Righteousness Of Our Deeds_

Shipmaster Davriel jolted slightly in his command throne as the machine spirit of the _Duty's Shadow_ grumbled fitfully beneath his feet, the massive ship shuddering as it maneuvered its way towards the planet that rotated serenely before him. "Status of the bombardment cannon?" he asked, his mechanical voice abnormally loud as it echoed throughout the subdued air that permeated the command deck.

"Tech-priests are reporting that the cannon is functioning at full capacity," came the report from one of the ensigns. "Magma shell is loading now. Auto-loader is performing without any objections, and estimated time to ready to fire state is five standard minutes."

"Time to firing range?"

"Seven standard minutes, sir," came the voice of another ensign.

"Very well. Send the word to the gunnery officers: if the Reapers make the mistake of approaching us, then make them regret forcing our hand like this."

"Aye sir."

With that, the command deck came alive once more, reports and relayed orders buzzing through the air as last-minute corrections and bombardment readiness alerts went out across the ship. The _Shadow_ hummed eagerly as the command throne came alive with acknowledgements from the various chief gunnery officers throughout the ship, and the hum became a deep roar, an undertone that only he could hear due to his unique connection.

Personally, Davriel doubted that they would see any more combat this day. The Reapers had already won, and the cowardly, despicable machines knew it. They would not risk themselves in battle against the far superior battle-barge, not when it was about to finish their unholy work on this planet for them.

"Shipmaster," said one of the Chapter serfs after a few minutes. "Beginning final approach to the planet now. Tech-priests are reporting that the magma shell is loaded, and the bombardment cannon is ready to fire at your command."

Davriel merely nodded in response, pushing the serf out of his mind as the command throne continually fed information from the ship's auspex array to him. The distance of the _Duty's Shadow_ from the planet, optimal firing ranges, updated locations of the Reapers, who still hung back at the system's edge, as if disbelieving of what the massive warship was about to unleash, before finally the notification that all was ready blinked in his mind's eye. With that, he mentally sent the order through the command throne, knowing that it would be near-instantaneously received by the hundred tech-priests that were assigned to oversee the constant maintenance of the ship-spanning weapon deep within the bowels of the kilometers-long warship. The _Shadow_ 's machine spirit was notoriously unreliable with regards to the weapon, requiring that dozens more scions of the Red Planet be stationed aboard the vessel than other, similar battle-barges might have normally carried.

Beneath his feet the deck rumbled in response to his orders, and a dozen cogitators winked in and out as the vibrations disrupted the delicate fibers within the cables that connected them to the machine spirit momentarily. A notification winked to life on his command throne, warning him that the firing of the bombardment cannon had ruptured a dozen bulkheads and damaged a number of other locations as well. He dismissed the rune with a thought, dispatching servitors to repair the damage a moment later. Overall, the damage they occurred was hardly worth mentioning. He had ordered the firing of the bombardment cannon hundreds of times over the course of his service, and by this point such self-inflicted damage was expected.

Davriel forewent the usage of the command throne's uplink node with the _Shadow_ 's machine spirit to watch the devastation that he had wrought with his order with his own eyes. Magma shells were massive pieces of ordinance, each one the product of years of careful crafting by tech-adepts of the forge worlds that worked to supply the Imperium's forces, designed to be used against heavily fortified planets in order to soften the defenders up so that the Astartes stationed aboard could then rapidly deploy against their still-dazed foes, still recovering within their fortresses and hiding beneath their void shields, thus taking them completely by surprise.

Deployed as this one was, against a few thousand defenseless refugees that had had their only chance of survival cruelly ripped away from them by the Reapers, was overkill. But the Shipmaster was taking no chances here. He did not want to take the risk of a standard bombardment with the macro weapons aboard the _Shadow_ somehow failing to eliminate all of the civilians below, leaving them to the nonexistent mercies of the Abominable Intelligences. The chance of such an event happening was negligible, but they had already failed them once today. They would not fail them again.

A massive orange fireball bloomed into existence where the shell had impacted the planet, reaching skywards as if it were trying to pull the _Shadow_ into the destruction, in judgment for the failure of its crew today. Spreading outwards, it greedily devoured all that it touched, swaths of green folding before it as it left naught but scorched and blackened earth in its wake. Finally, after what felt like an eternity of devastation but really was only a few minutes, the raging inferno burned itself out at last.

"Bombardment complete," said one of the serfs as the last vibrations finished wracking the ship. "Auspex scans show no remaining human life in the area, and tectonic forces are beginning to fluctuate wildly. Any Reaper forces that might have survived will be gone soon, Shipmaster."

"Good," Davriel said, the word ash upon his tongue. "Set a course for the Mandeville point, we are done here."

"Aye, Shipmaster."

As the enormous form of the _Duty's Shadow_ turned away from the planet that it had helped to kill, Davriel thought back to when he had been young. How he had once dreamed of helping bring peace to the Imperium through his deeds. How naïve he had been then, he thought. No matter where one went, it seemed that only death and destruction followed in his wake.

Perhaps, a small, heretical corner of his mind wondered, this galaxy would have been better off if they had never arrived here. But now he, and everyone else, would never know.

* * *

 _"_ _Bombardment successful, my Lord,"_ came the subdued voice of the Shipmaster over the vox. _"The_ Shadow's _augurs are reporting a saturation level of ninety-eight-point-three-four at the evacuation site, and all scans for human life are returning negative."_

"Understood," came the heavy word, unwillingly dragged out of his mouth by the demands of duty and mercy alike. "You have set a course away from the planet and towards the rendezvous point?" Nemros asked, turning away from the hololithic displays that littered the strategium that even now were beginning to flood with projected casualty lists. His eye caught the number racing past two thousand before he fully turned away, and he blinked, knowing that the memory was now burned forever in his mind, a constant reminder of their failure here today.

No. Not their failure. His failure. He had been the catalyst for this operation, and so he must shoulder the heavy burden that the outcome of it had cast upon him. To blame others would be more than simply wrong. It would be cowardly and self-blinding. Despite his failings, he would never be so pitiful as to allow that to happen.

Nemros ignored the constant pings that informed him of more and more updates to the information relayed to the strategium. He was not in the mood to go over them. Not now.

 _"_ _Yes, my Lord,"_ Davriel affirmed. _"The Alliance ships are away, and we will reach the system's Mandeville point in one hour. The navigator estimates the journey through the Warp afterwards will take about three days."_

"Very well, do not disturb me unless something major occurs," Nemros said.

 _"_ _Understood, my Lord."_ With that, the vox link winked out of existence, leaving the Captain alone with his thoughts.

Suddenly there was a ping from behind him, one that sounded subtly different from the dozen that followed it shortly after. Turning around, he could see that the awaiting notification bore the distinct mark of the Apothecarium, and a minor sense of dread flooded his nervous system. Had one of his Brothers been gravely wounded in the battle below? If so, then why had Slenarr waited until now to contact him with a report?

He let the emotions flow out of him. Slenarr, for all that made him the Astartes that he was, was not lax in his duties. Had one of their Brothers fallen, then he would have been made aware the moment that it happened. Ignoring the other notification runes, his hand flicked forward to open Slenarr's rune where it sat, blinking patiently.

What he read inside surprised him, his eyes opening slightly wider at the words inscribed within the message. Turning, he stormed out of the strategium, leaving the holo-screen unattended behind him.

* * *

"Consider yourself lucky that the tests have declared them free from taint Kalios, or I would have you reprimanded for this foolishness," Slenarr said, gesturing towards the pair of thoroughly intimidated children that sat on one of the Astartes-sized slabs of metal that were scattered throughout the Apothecarium. "The Company has no time for you to be playing hero. Not when such actions leave us vulnerable to potential Reaper spies. As it is, I will let Captain Nemros decide what to do with you."

"They did not strike me as corrupted at the time, Apothecary," the Assault Marine standing in front of him said, eyes narrowed slightly. "And we were on that planet to save as many humans as we could, were we not?"

"Kalios," Slenarr interrupted firmly. "You know better than to do something like this. You are a veteran of six decades of service, not some fresh-faced neophyte newly inducted into the Scout cadre. We cannot afford to take risks, not when we are as weak as we are now. Moreover, we still have not ruled out their potential as Reaper agents."

"They are not, now are they? Is that not what your scans told you?"

"Do _not_ mock me, Kalios," Slenarr said dangerously, his armor's dormant machine spirit rousing fitfully as anger began to stir within his hearts. "Just because you have been proven correct in your assumption for now does not vindicate you. It is possible that their corruption is too subtle for simple brainwave scans and checks for hidden cybernetics to detect. But you do not care about that, do you? Too focused on your supposed victory now to think about any potential consequences that could prove disastrous later."

"Enough," interrupted a third voice, the lone word echoing across the Apothecarium, carrying over the incessant mechanical tones of the machines within.

All present turned to face the source of the sudden intrusion. Stalking towards them was the armored form of Captain Nemros, thunder in his gaze. "Kalios, you _will_ be respectful towards those with more seniority than you, no matter how much you may disagree with them. Am I understood, Sergeant?"

Kalios bowed his head, unable to meet the Captain's gaze. "I understand, Brother-Captain," he intoned meekly.

Turning to face him, Nemros' gaze was met with the impassive ceramite that made up Slenarr's helmet. "Slenarr, it is beneath you to act in such a manner. I thought you better than such petty behavior."

The Apothecary met Nemros' eyes for a long moment before he too inclined his head slightly, conceding the point and wordlessly promising his compliance.

"Now," Nemros spoke once more after a few moments shifting his eyes between Kalios and Slenarr reproachfully. "You said you had something for me Slenarr? Something vital?"

"Yes," Slenarr said, throat dry as he found himself unsure how to word the momentous news. "These two mortals, these _children_ ," he gestured towards the pair of young boys that were practically cowering beside him, "they are…"

Here he swallowed, the act painfully dry as he pushed onwards, all eyes on him. "They are compatible for implantation."

There was a sharp intake of breath from Kalios, and even Nemros looked momentarily taken aback. Slenarr could not blame them, as he himself had been shocked when the Apothecarium's cogitators had fed him the results of the blood test. Throughout the Company there had been a near-unanimous expectation that they were doomed to slowly die out here, their numbers whittled down one by one until no more remained, should a way back not be found. Yet this discovery changed _everything_.

Nemros' gaze bored down upon him, every other consideration forgotten in this moment. "You are sure?"

Slenarr huffed, allowing himself a moment of indignation. "Of course I am sure," he said haughtily. "I have been implanting gene-seed since before you were even made a battle brother. I am quite-"

"Enough Slenarr," Nemros interrupted. "You have made your point." Nemros shifted his eyes toward the two mortals, staring at them intensely. The pair shifted backwards warily, unnerved by the strength in the Captain's gaze. "They are willing to undergo this?"

"Aye," Kalios said from where he stood. "They claimed that they wanted to become like us when I found them sneaking aboard Thunderhawk Three behind my squad and I."

Silence was the only response that Kalios received to his affirmation. Nemros continued to stare, and Slenarr could feel the balance of fate as it stood balanced on a razor edge. To accept these two would mean more than accepting blood from a location that was not the homeworld, as momentous a decision as that was. It meant the implicit acceptance that the Company was now bound to this galaxy for forever, that no way back was capable of being found. To reject them would mean that the Company would never cease their pursuit of returning to the Emperor's side once more.

"Slenarr," Nemros said curtly. "Your thoughts? Should we grant them the honor of becoming aspirants?"

"We would be fools not to," the Apothecary stated simply. "Despite my inclinations toward the negative, the Emperor Himself knows how much we need new blood to survive this new reality."

Out of the corner of his enhanced eyes, Slenarr could see Kalios shooting him a curious look and rolled his eyes behind his helmet in response. Did the other Marine truly believe him so spiteful and stubborn that he would rather see the Company die out rather than bow before the might of reality?

Suddenly Nemros spoke again, and Slenarr found himself holding his breath in anticipation of the Captain's verdict.

"It is said on the homeworld that courage is the sieve that separates the worthy from the weak. What keeps the blood pure and the mind strong," Nemros said as he towered over the two young humans. The pair stared back at him with wide eyes and bated breaths. "Both of you have shown courage already, first in surviving the horrors that infested your world, and then by determining that you would not be amongst the ones left behind, no matter the method you needed to undertake to survive."

Nemros fell silent, and an expectant void filled the air as mortals and transhumans alike awaited the Captain's judgment. A notification rune appeared on Slenarr's visor, informing him that the smaller of the two mortals was becoming dangerously close to passing out from an exceedingly high mixture of hormones that were racing about their bodies uncontrolled.

"You shall be judged in the manner of the homeworld," Nemros said at last. Slenarr frowned disapprovingly behind his helmet, but held his tongue. This was the Captain's judgment, and he would respect it no matter how much he disagreed. "Should your flesh be strong and your spirit unyielding, then you will undergo the initial phase of ascension. From there, we shall see what the Emperor deems right."

"Captain," Kalios said even as the pair of mortals cheered excitedly, his voice carrying easily over their raucous clamor, "Who shall train them should they succeed? Scout-Sergeant Uvareth died during our journey here."

Nemros shifted at that, tilting his head as he conceded the point. "Indeed, and his skill at training neophytes will be sorely missed." As he finished, however, a gleam entered the Captain's eyes, and he turned to look Kalios dead-on. "In light of his absence, and due to this being the result of _your_ idea, however, I say it is only right that they become your responsibility, is it not?"

Slenarr felt a flash of vindictive glee as a moment of panic filled Kalios' eyes, a small smirk blooming across his lips involuntarily. "Brother-Captain," the other Marine said quickly, clearly hoping to escape his fate, "I cannot. I would not know where to begin, and my squad needs me to lead them."

"You must," Nemros said sternly, gaze shifting to one of adamantium. "As you said, Uvareth is dead, and we must rebuild the Company despite his absence. To lack a Brother capable of training neophytes would be grave indeed. They must learn the ways of the Tower, and Uvareth said you were a quick study when you were under his charge. I trusted his judgment then, and I trust it even now. So, for now, I would have you do this, until one more willing steps forward to fill the void."

Kalios bowed his head, resigned to accepting his fate. "Very well Captain. And my squad?"

"You will still lead them on missions. Make no mistake here Kalios, you are still a full Brother, this is no punishment. While you are deployed, I will have Manswell reprogram a few servitors for them to train with."

"I understand. I will have them undergo the Unyielding Trials immediately."

"See that you do," Nemros said, dismissing the Assault Marine with a nod. Bowing slightly, the other Astartes motioned for the mortals to join him, and the trio moved to leave the Apothecarium while Slenarr and Nemros watched on.

"How compatible are they truly, Slenarr?" Nemros asked after a moment. "Your report mentioned that they were potential neophytes, but we both know that means little until the first organs have been implanted."

"Truthfully?" Slenarr asked. Nemros nodded slightly, eyes never leaving Kalios' back. "The human genome of this galaxy is much underdeveloped in comparison to our own, which has undergone thirty-eight thousand years of divergence, evolution, and mutation more than theirs. They are compatible, it is true, but there is significant risk of the gene-seed being rejected. Over double the chance if they had come from Istalsis. From our galaxy."

"And Istalsian aspirants already suffer from a twenty-seven percent failure rate," Nemros sighed, turning to look at the rows of small containers that lined the walls of the Apothecarium, each one containing legacies that stretched back over millennia. "The Emperor has seen fit to grant us a miracle today, but not without making us depend upon him."

"As always," Slenarr said.

"As always," Nemros agreed.

"Do you think they will ever truly be Sentinels?" Slenarr asked suddenly, a thought niggling away in the back of his mind.

"What do you mean Slenarr?" Nemros said, a slight frown taking up position on his usually impassive face.

"They are not from Istalsis," Slenarr explained, gesturing towards the emblem that was emblazoned upon the far wall, the iconography of the Chapter. "They are not from the Tower, have not endured what we had to." Here he hesitated, before proceeding to the heart of his issue. "They are from _here_ ," he said, "where they have lived an existence that, while blasphemous, was still relatively peaceful up until now. We, on the other hand, have been forged to fight a galaxy that has been at war since long before mankind left Terra. Do you think, truly, that they will be able to adjust? Able to be true Sentinels?"

"They will," Nemros said gravely, turning back to look at the now-closed door that Kalios and the two aspirants had departed through. "Or they shall die."

* * *

"Slenarr is not without a valid point." Even Thomas could clearly understand the grudging note that permeated every syllable in that sentence. "These Reapers, we do not understand fully how they work, how they corrupt us. I acted hastily, and the price paid could have been disastrous."

"But we aren't. Corrupted, that is," Thomas said quickly. "Even if I don't really understand what that means," he muttered to himself afterwards.

"Yet we had to be sure," Kalios said in response. If he had heard Thomas' aside, then he made no comment on it.

"So, when can we fight?" Caleb demanded after a moment, eyes blazing with a mixture of anticipation and impatience. "That other Sentinel said we were ok, right? So when can we get our revenge?"

Kalios stopped at those words, turning to face the pair of them. Between the sudden attention from the much larger warrior and the steady hum of machinery that reverberated all around them in the corridor, the air suddenly seemed much thicker to Thomas. Tense, even.

"Is that truly what you desire?" the Marine asked quietly. Thomas was surprised. Between the constant _thrum_ of the power plant on the back of the Marine's armor and his resounding footfalls, he had not been sure if the giant was even capable of being quiet. "Revenge?"

"Of course," Caleb blurted out before Thomas could say anything. "The Reapers killed our families and friends. Mom, Dad, my sister. I want…" here he faltered a moment, and Thomas could see the tears that the younger boy was desperately trying to suppress well up, threatening to spill over and outwards. "I want to kill them. All of them."

Thomas put his hand on his friend's shoulder, only to jerk away in surprise when Kalios spoke again, this time directing his attention towards him. "And you?" the Marine asked, still quiet. "What do you want, Thomas of Nova Terra? You told me you wanted to become one of us, but what is it you truly desire, more than anything else?"

"I want…" he began eagerly, about to tell the Marine that he wanted exactly what his friend had said he wanted. He had lost everything to the Reapers, everything except for Caleb. Then the full weight of Kalios' question hit him, and he stopped. What was it that he wanted?

Kalios gazed at him for a moment longer, before his arm began to move. "Tell me, aspirants," he said, left hand reaching up and over until it brushed against the stylized white tower that was emblazoned in stark contrast to the black that covered the rest of his pauldron. "The iconography of the Chapter. What do you think it stands for?"

Thomas and Caleb stood still for a long moment, the pair of them both quietly thankful for the moment to catch their breath and afraid of guessing wrong. Finally, Thomas spoke first. "Endurance?" he asked, throwing his answer out into the open haphazardly, flinching slightly at the possibility of being answered by Kalios' wrath for being wrong.

"Strength?" Caleb asked a moment later, when Kalios did not deign to respond. The Space Marine slowly nodded at that.

"Correct, the pair of you, but you fail to fully grasp what the Unbroken Tower means to us Iron Sentinels, what it means with regards to _being_ an Iron Sentinel," Kalios said, hand dropping back to his side. "On the homeworld of the Chapter, Istalsis, stands the Unbroken Tower, which we carry with us wherever our duties lead us. It was forged in ages past, a mighty bastion against the alien raiders that frequently scourged the planet, taking away thousands of innocent humans with each passing year. In desperation, the people of Istalsis banded together, gathering all their technological lore to forge the Tower, as both a fortress and a city in one pillar of adamantium that stretched forth towards the stars, so that they would not be exterminated underneath the pitiless gaze of the xenos."

"Did it work?" Caleb asked, just as enraptured by the story as Thomas was.

"It allowed them to survive, if that is what you mean," Kalios said, unfazed by the interruption. "At the time, our Chapter was fleet-bound, forever wandering the stars beyond the borders of the Imperium since the days of our Founding. When the Chapter Master of the time came across Istalsis, our fore-brothers shattered the backs of the xenos raiders, eventually wiping them from existence for their heinous crimes against humanity. Impressed by the strength of the mortals, who had endured for so long on their own, the Chapter Master declared that Istalsis would become our new homeworld, and the Unbroken Tower our fortress and symbol. On that day, we shed our former name and heraldry, forsook our previous nomadic existence, and became the Iron Sentinels, while Istalsis became a productive part of the Imperium."

"To carry the Tower, to be an Iron Sentinel," Kalios continued, "requires one to have more than mere strength of arms, or endurance of body. Such things are granted through the process of ascension, through which we become Astartes. No, it requires one to be a symbol, a symbol of hope and unity in a galaxy at war. And that is the hardest burden for any Iron Sentinel to bear, for such a duty requires far more than mere skill with a blade."

"Hope?" Thomas asked, confused by the Astartes' explanation. Unity he could understand, but hope? He had been expected something more along the lines of courage.

"Hope," Kalios affirmed. "The people of Istalsis were shattered in spirit, desperate, before the founding of the Unbroken Tower. Through it, the will of Istalsis was re-forged, and hope was found once more. And just as the Tower was and is, so must we be. Hope to the people of the Imperium, that we keep them safe from the horrors of the galaxy, and hope to the traitor, the heretic, and the xeno, that we might grant them redemption through death."

"And unity?" Caleb asked, a thoughtful expression on his young face. Thomas repressed the growing smirk on his face as hard as he could, extremely doubtful that Kalios would appreciate the emotion. His friend had always been the thinker between the two of them.

"Unity," Kalios rumbled once more, gaze growing strangely thoughtful at the word. "Divided, Istalsis was weak, easy prey for the alien raiders. It was only when they came together that they were able to survive. Likewise, we Sentinels must stand together, for it is through brotherhood that we become unbreakable. We must all stand together, for the galaxy is a harsh, unforgiving place, ready and eager to destroy us the moment even the slightest of cracks forms."

"Wow," he mumbled, the enormity of what he had so eagerly desired beginning to weigh down upon him. He had thought that it would be like what the Alliance did with their military, where he and Caleb would serve for a few years before leaving, but now he could see that he and Caleb were in for so, so much more. The thought both terrified and excited him in equal measures.

"Make no mistake," Kalios said, interrupting his racing thoughts. "You will have your revenge, even if it takes a thousand years, even if it is not you who deals it personally. The Reapers will fall by our hands, but you must think beyond them, to what lies beyond. To truly become an Iron Sentinel, you must learn that while revenge most certainly has its place within us, there is far more to our duty than mere hate."

"But enough history and philosophy," Kalios said after a moment of observing his charges, moving off through the bowels of the ship once more, leaving Thomas and Caleb to race after him once more. "The process of becoming a neophyte is long and arduous, and there is much to do. First, you must survive the Unyielding Trials before I will even consider training you."

"Trials?" Thomas groaned, the aches already present in his body throbbing at the mere word. A small part of his mind wondered if it was too late for them to back out, but he shoved the rogue thought away, dashing after the evermore-distant forms of the Sergeant and his friend. If he gave up now, he would be weak forever, unable to prevent what had happened to everything he had ever cared about from happening again to others. Unable to prevent them from suffering the pain that he had gone through.

And that, he vowed quietly, suddenly knowing what it was that he _truly_ wanted more than anything, was something that he would never let happen. He would never be weak again, not if he could help it.

* * *

 _"_ _Sparatus,"_ came the curt voice of Councilor Valern, splitting loudly through the façade of calm that had lingered over his office like a shroud. Outside, the ever-present hum of aircars was muted, even more so than what the sound-treated glass windows of his office usually dimmed it down to. The attack on the Citadel, and the lingering presence of a few handfuls of Cerberus personnel, had all but brought daily life on the station to a halt.

Sparatus groaned as his talons fumbled for the intercom to respond. What could that Salarian want now? The other Councilor knew for a fact that he was busy trying to sort out the refugee crisis to the best of his ability at the moment, so why was he bothering him now?

"What is it, Valern?" he said wearily, rubbing his mandibles with his hands, trying futilely to relieve the ache that had steadily built up there over the course of the last few hours.

 _"_ _Are you alone?"_ the other Councilor asked hurriedly.

The Turian Councilor looked up languidly, knowing full well that he was. Alone with his thoughts, aches, pains, and, most importantly, all the electronic paperwork that had had him performing mental gymnastics nonstop for the past few days. Bitterly, wordlessly, he swore at the Asari and their stubborn refusal to accept any more refugees. As if a few thousand more lost souls would harm the legendary economy that the blue-skinned aliens refused to stop boasting about all the time.

"Only if you're willing to ignore the dust and work that's been piling up ever since the Reapers arrived."

 _"_ _Good, good,"_ Valern said, completely breezing by the sarcasm that Sparatus had so generously laden into his response. _"Received information, very important. Need you in my office right now."_

Sparatus sat up slightly straighter in his chair. If Valern, of all people, considered something important enough to dispense with complete sentences, then he was probably about to have his view of the galaxy about to completely change. Again, he thought briefly before pushing the intercom button to respond, halfway out of his chair as he did.

"I'll be there in two," he promised, before cutting the link and hurrying out the door of his office.

Once outside, he brushed past the aides and sycophants that hurried to his side, each individual clamoring loudly for his attention. Inside his mind, a whirlwind of suppositions as to what Valern had for him raced about, each one more ludicrous than the last. Pushing the thoughts aside, he pushed the button for the elevator that would take him to the Salarian embassy, heedless to the muffled calls from his security detail as they tried in vain to push themselves through the crowd of petitioners in order to reach him. Whatever Valern had discovered, he reasoned to himself, would soon be revealed.

Suddenly, the elevator doors in front of him let out of a soft tone, signaling the arrival of the elevator proper. Stepping inside, he was thankful for the sudden rush of silence that surged all around him as the doors closed, the ever-louder petitioners cut off mid-cry. Whoever thought that this job was an honor had clearly never had to perform it, he thought darkly as the floor beneath him jolted slightly.

When the doors opened once more, he was greeted with long, orderly lines of petitioners, and while there was a level of clamor in the air, it was restrained, quite unlike the frenzied mob he had just left behind. Sparatus was not sure whether he envied or hated the typical Salarian efficiency at that moment.

Brushing past a few errant politicians, he made his way inside Valern's office, the door opening when he reached it expectantly. "Alright Valern," he said as he walked towards the lone Salarian in the room, mindful of the fact that every single action of his was no doubt being monitored and recorded. "What was it that was so important? You've already sent me the STG reports from Terra Nova." Coming a halt before Valern's desk, he asked the question that had been nagging him the entire trip here. "Is the reason for this visit related to those reports?"

The Salarian Councilor seemed to have managed to calm down in the time it had taken Sparatus to reach him, evidenced by the fact that Valern's reply came in the form of coherent sentences. "In a matter of speaking, yes. I received this transmission from STG Command twenty minutes ago. It was marked with the highest level of clearance." Valern took a moment to let the enormity of the implications behind that sentence sink in. STG Command marked very few things with such clearance requirements. "Technically, I'm committing high treason by sharing this information with you."

With that, Valern depressed the button on a data-pad, and a thick, rough voice erupted from the speakers on the device.

 _"_ _This is Centurion Thraes of the Astartes Strike Cruiser_ Luna's Reach _, broadcasting on all known Imperial frequencies. Traitors have damaged our Warp drive and heavily damaged other parts of our ship. Our Navigator and astropaths are dead, along with most of the other mortals and a sizable portion of our Brothers. Requesting immediate evacuation from coordinates enclosed within this message."_

Valern looked up at him as the voice began to repeat the message, silencing the speaker as he did so. Silence resounded throughout the room before he spoke again. "That, Sparatus, is what I wanted to speak to you about."

 _A/N: New year, new update. Hopefully your first day of 2018 was warmer than mine was. Negative 25 Fahrenheit windchill yey._

 _With this chapter, the Terra Nova arc is over, and the next two chapters will focus on everyone's favorite human supremacist group-turned Chaos worshipers. Stay tuned._

 _Fun fact: Kalios originally was nothing more than a throwaway character from the chapter_ Tempest _, but after these last two chapters, what do I know? I'm just the guy writing the story. It's rather fascinating how stories write themselves despite whatever inclinations you might have had towards the opposite._

 _Finally, last chapter brought this story up to 200 faves and over 50k views. I might be starting to sound like a broken record at this point, but once more, thank you to all who've read, reviewed, favorited and followed. It's mind blowing to have a story this successful._


	16. Portents of War

_Chapter 15: Portents of War_

Aboard the bridge of his flagship, the _Elbrus_ , General Oleg Petrovsky stared at the space station the floated serenely in space ahead of him in frustration. The invasion of Omega had been raging for the past three weeks, and almost no progress had been made during that time. The initial plan, to use Reaper creatures called Adjutants to sow confusion and discord while his troops removed key figures in Omega's leadership, though distasteful to his sensibilities, would have been effective enough to secure control of the station within a matter of days. Instead, the Illusive Man had bizarrely called off the operation at the last moment, offering absolutely no explanation as to why. The only order he had been given was to conquer Omega, in any way possible.

So, he had gambled, landing his men on the station by hiding them within hijacked freighters that had been bound for Omega. Once aboard, they had proceeded to attempt to capture key points while his fleet secured orbital supremacy of the local system. At first, all had gone well. District after district had fallen as his men surged forward, hoping to capture Afterlife, Aria's infamous nightclub and the closest thing Omega had to a beating heart.

However, he had overestimated the amount of anarchy that ruled the station, and gangs of locals and mercenaries alike had banded together to bog down his troops and deny his ships the ability to resupply them. His men had been met with setback after setback as mercenary bands thought broken and scattered rallied to launch counterattacks on the flanks of the Cerberus advance. Though uncoordinated and easily defeated, these attacks forced Petrovsky to divert precious manpower away from the front and brought the offensive to a grinding halt.

Now they were here, the men on the station unable to make any meaningful headway against the near-constant attacks that were launched against their positions, and the fleet could do little beyond affecting a blockade of the station, though they would most likely run out of supplies long before the station did. There had been no word from the Illusive Man about their supply chain during their brief exchange three weeks ago, when the leader of Cerberus had contacted him with the news about inbound reinforcements, and Petrovsky doubted that they would be receiving anything at all.

The General frowned slightly, his reflection in the data-pad before him mirroring him. Such behavior was unlike the Illusive Man. Whereas before he would have been able to work out a new plan and the supporting details in-depth with the leader of Cerberus, nowadays the Illusive Man was distant, never responding to the many calls that he placed to Cronos Station. Such a complete shift in conduct was troubling.

"General," came a voice from behind him, shaking him from his thoughts. Turning, he came face-to-face with Captain Swanson, the other man dressed impeccably in his Cerberus captain's uniform. Petrovsky appreciated that about the Captain. Unlike some Cerberus officers, Swanson took the notion of professionalism seriously.

"What is it Captain?" he asked.

"Major Stefan has sent another update. His men have been pushed from sectors A3 and G2, and casualties are heavy. He says that the assaults were combined Eclipse and Blue Suns offensives, and wants to know if we can send him any reinforcements for a counterattack."

"Tell him what we've been telling him the last six times Swanson. As long as Omega's anti-ship batteries remain in Aria's hands, we cannot move supplies onto the station."

"Very well, General."

"Sirs," interrupted the urgent voice of an ensign to the left of the two men. "The relay is flaring. Unidentified contacts moving through now, three of them. Their profiles do not match up with any known ship types in our databases."

"Unknown ships on intercept course!" shouted another ensign as the bridge of the _Elbrus_ erupted into chaos.

Petrovsky swore, long and loudly, as he moved towards nearest command terminal. Had Aria received reinforcements? And if so, from whom? He dismissed the thoughts quickly, banishing them to the realm of idle speculation. Regardless of the identity of the incoming attackers, the fact remained that the Cerberus fleet was now surrounded on both sides. If the defense fleet that hugged the outer range of Omega's anti-ship batteries sallied out to assault them in a conjoined attack, then they were doomed.

"Tell the _Berlin_ and the _Norfolk_ to maintain position. Helm, bring us about! Bring the mass accelerator to ready status!" he shouted over the din.

"General!" shouted the first ensign disbelievingly. "The new ships are broadcasting their ident codes now! They're Cerberus!"

That proclamation brought an abrupt end to the noise that had permeated the bridge only seconds ago. "Cerberus ships?" Petrovsky asked, a mixture of confusion, annoyance, and wariness in his tone. "Why were we not informed of this development? Why did the Illusive Man not contact us?"

"Lead unknown Cerberus ship hailing us now, General," came the calm voice of Swanson from his position at the ship's CIC command terminal.

"Have they transmitted the proper authentication codes?" Petrovsky asked, wary. For all he could tell, this could be an elaborate ruse on the part of Aria to make him let down his guard.

"Aye Sir, all codes check out. Should I put them through?" asked the ensign nervously, wary of the stony look on Petrovsky's face.

"Patch it through ensign," he said, before turning to the Captain. "Swanson, tell the fleet to resume formation. We cannot allow Aria's fleet to take advantage of this."

"Yes Sir," said the other man as he pressed a key on his holo-display, beginning to relay orders to the other seven ships that had originally come to the Omega system alongside the _Elbrus_.

"To unidentified Cerberus ships, this is General Petrovsky, the commander in charge of the Omega invasion. Identify yourself immediately, or we will be forced to consider you hostile," Petrovsky spoke into the command terminal. Around him, he could see the entire bridge crew surreptitiously lean in, each man and woman desperate for information about the new group of arrivals.

 _"_ _Such base hostility, General,"_ spoke a voice that Petrovsky heard in equal parts both from the command terminal's voice relay and within his head. _"One would think that you would know by now to greet allies with respect."_

"I am not in the habit of repeating myself," Petrovsky gritted out through clenched teeth, trying hard to blot out the pain that the echoes left behind by the voice caused. "Identify. Yourself."

 _"_ _Very well,"_ sighed the unknown voice. _"You may call me the Prophet, the leader of the reinforcements that the Illusive Man has sent to end this farce of an operation. As of right now, I am assuming command of all Cerberus forces in-system."_

"Oh?" queried Petrovsky disbelievingly. "Well then, 'Prophet,' I'm afraid to disappoint you, but the men under my command are just that: under my command. I don't know you, nor do I recognize the ships that you command. Until I receive word from the Illusive Man himself, I have no reason to do _anything_ that you say."

 _"_ _Do you defy the will of the Illusive Man?"_ asked the Prophet, in a curious tone laden with indulgence, as if Petrovsky were nothing more than a petulant child whining about having his toy taken away. _"Do you defy the will of Cerberus itself?"_

"I do not defy the Illusive Man," corrected Petrovsky condescendingly. The voice of this so-called Prophet, a ridiculous title by any stretch of the imagination, made his blood boil with disgust and pain. He did not know why, perhaps it truly was petty petulance, but he knew he would be damned before he passed over command to this newcomer. "I defy you," he clarified.

Another sigh. _"How disappointing, that the supposedly smart General Petrovsky has proven himself a failure in all regards. Very well then. If that is how you wish to go about this, then so be it. We shall take this station with or without you, and when it is done, you will explain your behavior and your failure to the Illusive Man himself."_

With that, the three new ships began to drift closer and closer towards Omega.

* * *

"Such pitiful, meaningless defiance," muttered the Prophet as he turned away from the link. Turning towards the hulking mixture of rock and metal that styled itself as the greatest den of iniquity in the Terminus Systems, he began preparing for the opening blow against the so-called Queen of Omega. The Asari matriarch thought herself impenetrable within her lair, hidden away behind her power and the greed of others, and he would derive great pleasure from tearing away the façade of control that Aria indulged herself in.

Beneath the smooth mask of blank plastek that covered the self-styled Prophet's face, a trio of eyes blinked concurrently, focus shifting in and out as the Great Ocean's currents washed over the hull of his ship. His third eye, a boon from his patron deity, worked in tandem to allow him to delve the surface of the Warp to see the tides of fear, anger, bloodshed, and despair that practically flooded off the surface of Omega. The Illusive Man had revealed much since his illumination, while others such as himself feverishly worked themselves to the bone in order to comprehend even a fraction of his knowledge. Though such attempts had so far been met with failure, their standing too low with the creature that spoke through the Illusive Man, the Prophet was certain that after all of this, he would become one of the most powerful members of the new, enlightened Cerberus. Then, and only then, would he be able to draw upon the secrets of the universe that he had been blind to for far too long.

"Caldeus," he intoned, third eye flickering as he spotted what he had been searching for: a tight knot of determination and anticipation that was situated near the heaviest concentration of Omega's anti-ship batteries. The soul-fires of the individuals inside were dim, their inner light atrophied and withered away after years of wanton brutality and service to one of the most infamous crime lords in the galaxy. They would offer no meaningful resistance. "It is time for us to begin. Bring the sacrifices before me."

Next to him, a hulking brute of a man bowed deeply before hurrying off to the depths of the ship, barking a guttural order that caused another dozen Cerberus members to scurry after him as he did. Caldeus had changed much since the Illusive Man's announcement of their new mission in this galaxy. The man had always been a bully, eager to flaunt his strength against all those he considered weaker than himself, and had been one of the first to go under the knives of Cerberus' chirurgeons. Where once there had been a normal human being, now Caldeus was a twisted amalgamation of muscle and fury, the force of his will barely constrained by the various cybernetics that littered his flesh.

 _"_ _Sacrifices?"_ demanded the voice of General Petrovsky over the intercom. _"What the hell are you talking about, 'Prophet'? What the hell is going on over there?"_

"Do _not_ presume to speak to one such as I with that tone of voice," the Prophet warned, lips twisting into a sneer. The Illusive Man's orders regarding Petrovsky had been clear, despite what he had said to the man. The General had failed in his mission, and Cerberus had no room for failures like the old has-been aboard the _Elbrus_. After all of this was over, the General would become nothing more than fuel for his next ritual. "I have my orders from the Illusive Man. Orders you are seemingly incapable of carrying out."

 _"_ _Why you-"_ The Prophet raised his hand, power surging through him, and the console that the General's enraged voice emerged from exploded into a shower of sparks and metal shards.

"Fool," he said with a tone of contempt and finality. He turned to see Caldeus and two dozen Cerberus troopers herding near a hundred broken wretches into the expanded bridge of the _Damned Visage_. Clad in tattered rags and covered in etchings of praise to the Primordial Annihilator, these individuals were the few that had refused to follow the Illusive Man's new vision, either being too far gone to Reaper influence or simply not possessing the will necessary to see this course through to its end. "Arrange them, and then take up your positions."

Some of the slaves wept as the faithful of Cerberus roughly shoved them to the center of the bridge, where the eight-pointed Star of the Octed had been engraved into the floor. Others prayed desperately, as if some divine power would suddenly appear and whisk them away from their approaching doom. The Prophet chuckled darkly at the thought. There were only four divine figures in the universe, and it was to one of them that these fools were to be sacrificed to. The God of Hope denied these weaklings their hope, deaf to their pleas. The irony was palpable.

A gobbet of spit and blood landed near his feet. The Prophet glanced contemptuously at the mixture of human fluids before turning to see the glaring eyes of one of the slaves, the only one to remain defiant even now. "Caldeus," he rumbled, one finger lifting to point at the slave with all the force of Fate. "This one. Bring him before me. He shall serve as the crux of our ritual."

The hulking form of Caldeus lumbered across the room, grabbing the defiant slave in the process. Upon reaching the Prophet, Caldeus roughly shoved the man down onto his knees while keeping his head facing upwards. The Prophet bent forwards slightly, gazing into the man's eyes.

"Madman," the other man gasped painfully through broken teeth and a shredded tongue, trails of blood lazily oozing their way out of jagged gashes down his face, falling onto the blackened deck below.

"Mad?" the Prophet asked incredulously, straightening back up as he did. "I am not the one who thought he could defy Fate Incarnate, little worm."

With that, the Prophet raised both hands into the air, eldritch energy coursing through his body as he began to speak. The sounds that emerged from his mouth were not words, but noises from a time long before the first species of the galaxy began to rise from the primordial muck of their respective homeworlds. Never meant to inhabit the throats of mortals, the reality-defying noises were now irredeemably corrupt, tainted by the new, unholy lore that the Prophet had delved into back on Cronos Station. The Octed symbol on the floor flared with impossible colors and faint screams in response to the intermingled chanting of the Prophet and the pained groaning of the slaves.

Lights flickered wildly, deck crew screamed in agony as their minds splintered in an effort to protect their sanity, and one of the Cerberus troopers collapsed to the floor, body mutating wildly as his will faltered before the unrelenting force of the Sea of Souls. One by one, the mortals arranged around the symbol began to die, their bodies failing as the stuff of the Warp began to flow through their veins, harnessing their life energies before streaming outwards towards the slave knelt before the Prophet. The head of one victim exploded in a shower of blood, bone, and gray matter, while another one collapsed to the floor, body twisting and writhing as it underwent uncontrolled mutation before ending as a formless lump of shattered bones and punctured skin. All the while, the Prophet continued to chant, louder and louder, as his mouth began to drip blood and his throat boiled in defiance. Beneath him, the defiant slave screamed, voice pitching higher and higher until it could no longer be heard by human ears.

Finally, in a moment that seemed to stretch on into eternity, the ritual reached its apex. Drawing upon all the unspeakable agony and the hate-fueled pain that swirled around him in a corona of colors, the Prophet thrust one hand forward, finger pointing directly at his chosen victim, howling in triumph as the veil between reality and the Immaterium was ripped to shreds by the energies unleashed. There was a loud _snap_ as the chaotic energy was violently displaced in a moment, before the formerly defiant slave crumpled inwards upon himself, the few remaining slaves that still desperately clung to life dying moments later.

For his part, the Prophet watched, smiling wildly behind his faceless mask as a stream of blood poured from his mouth and nose, savoring the sight of the stream of Warp energy flaring brightly before it impacted upon a particularly dim soul in the Omega command room.

* * *

"Spirits," grumbled Terentius as he gazed down upon his holo-console. The constant buzz of noise that permeated the command center of Omega's anti-ship batteries, usually subdued, was now a raucous clamor as telemetry on the three new Cerberus ships continued to flow into the room hours after their arrival. Mass projections, estimated crew sizes, and weaponry comparisons with other ships of matching classifications streamed across the hololithic displays, each statistic adjusting erratically as long-range probes analyzed the newly arrived vessels. "Six months of this shit, day in and day out. When are they just gonna give up?"

"Word goin' around says we're close to pushing them off the station after today," the human sitting next to him, clad in Blue Suns armor that matched his own, said, not bothering to look up from his own console. "I say about a week. Two weeks, tops."

Terentius grunted. "It wouldn't be so bad if I could shoot some of them myself. Instead here we are, sittin' on our asses. Even with those new ships they just got they can't do anything to us."

"Yeah. It's what, three new ships out there, plus the original eight?"

"Yep," affirmed the human. "New ones are larger. Could be troop transports."

"They even done anything since they got here?" asked another human, this one wearing the armor of a relatively minor mercenary band. Most of the Blue Suns that were usually contracted to fill the positions that Terentius and his comrades were currently occupying were either dead, killed by the Cerberus invaders, or slowly and steadily pushing the white-clad troopers of the station.

"Nope," said the first human. "Scans are showing them holding position just outside range of our anti-ship batteries. Probably thought the initial batch silenced them and are trying to figure out what the hell to do now."

"Instead they get to watch us kill all the bastards that are already on the station," Terentius chuckled, looking up as he did. "Sucks to be them."

"Shut up," grumbled a Batarian from behind them. "Those Cerberus ships seem to be drifting closer. Eyes on the instruments."

Terentius grumbled quietly as his vision drifted downward, numbers flashing before his eyes. Spirits, he thought as he stifled a yawn, mandibles flexing minutely as he fought to keep his muscles under control. No wonder the other Blue Suns had so eagerly volunteered to be thrown directly into the grueling firefights that engulfed entire districts of the station. He and his compatriots had only been at this for the past few days, and already he felt like throwing himself off a ledge and into the depths of Omega.

There was a momentary glint of light in the corner of his eye, emitting from the bridge of one of the newly-arrived Cerberus ships. Whipping his head upwards, the light was gone long before he finished the movement.

"What?" he asked, befuddled and slightly dizzy. He blinked, wondering where the lightheadedness had suddenly come from, before writing it off as a consequence of his sudden movement.

"Huh?" asked the human beside him, clearly puzzled by Terentius' exclamation.

"I thought…" he trailed off, before shaking his head slightly. "Strange, I could have sworn that I saw something."

The human chuckled slightly. "You should get more rest man, not chase Asari tail all night long. Might do your sanity some good."

"Fuck you," Terentius grumbled before declining his head to look back at his holo-console, which began fluctuating wildly.

"Hey, is anyone else's…" the words died in his mouth, question forgotten as his eyes beheld a field of wreckage where the dozens of various types of warships that Aria had scraped together to deny Cerberus local space superiority had floated serenely only moments ago. Beyond the void-sealed plasti-steel that made up the viewport, the Cerberus fleet loomed, impossibly close, moving further and further towards the station.

"Spirits," he breathed, before turning wildly towards the direction where the command controls for the anti-ship batteries sat, nearly falling out of his chair and on to the floor in his haste. Suddenly he found his movement arrested by a pair of hands on his arm and chest.

"Terentius?" the human wearing the colors of the mercenary group he could not be bothered to remember asked. "What the hell're you doin'?""

As Terentius gazed into the human's eyes, he came to the horrifying conclusion that the man holding him back was a part of Cerberus, whether he realized it or not. Everyone on the station had heard of what had happened on the Citadel, and the vast amount of damage caused by their sleeper agents. Brainwashed humans had risen up, sabotaging crucial aspects of the Citadel and delaying response times by a degree that had nearly proven fatal.

Terentius did not know why Cerberus had held back on activating their agents on Omega for so long, despite sending so many of their men to the slaughter unsupported. Perhaps the arrival of the new ships was the signal for the real invasion to begin. In the end, it did not matter. If he failed to do anything now, the station's void defenses would fall, and with them, the station itself.

There was one terrible moment of clarity, and he realized that he knew. He knew what he had to do if Omega were to be saved.

Reaching down, he yanked the Carnifex pistol from where it had lain mag-locked on his thigh and leveled it directly at the human's face. Before the man's eyes could finish widening in shock, he squeezed the trigger.

The resulting discharge was deafening, amplified as it was by the enclosed space of the command center. Blood and gray matter erupted from the man's skull, painting a macabre fresco on his holo-console. The other mercenaries in the room rapidly shot to their feet, even as Terentius moved his pistol towards them.

"What the fu-" was all the human wearing Blue Suns armor was able to say before Terentius ended his life with a pair of mass accelerator rounds to the heart. The Turian smiled grimly as he watched his erstwhile comrade collapse. He never had liked traitors.

A quick, staccato burst of fire sounded from behind him, his shield generator absorbing some of the shots before failing, the rounds chewing through his armor and piercing flesh beneath. He bit back a shriek of pain and whirled, turning in time to empty the rest of his clip into the Batarian, who was desperately reaching for a knife after his submachine gun jammed. The four-eyed mercenary died, gurgling blood as he futilely tried to throw his knife at Terentius.

Terentius gasped for breath, whimpering at the bite of pain that erupted from the motion. Judging by the location of the pain and the amount of blood he was losing, he knew he did not have long. He was confused as to why the Batarian had shot him, but he supposed that in the other mercenary's eyes, he was the one who had attacked unprovoked. The realization, however, did nothing to stem the flow of blue blood that leaked between his talons and dripped onto the floor.

Dragging himself over to the firing console, each step a flare of agony, he quickly entered the calculations and trajectories required for the anti-ship batteries to fire. The Cerberus ships were so close now that he could probably just throw a rock at them and not miss. Beneath him, the anti-ship guns responded, turrets traversing as they acquired their targets and opened fire with brutal effect. Ship after Cerberus ship exploded, their hulls crumpling beneath the massive shells as their kinetic barriers failed. Some tried to flee, but could not escape the kill zone in time. Soon, all the ships were reduced to nothing more than cosmic dust.

Terentius smiled weakly, knowing that he had done it. Omega would be safe because of his sacrifice. As his vision dimmed, he blinked once last time.

When he opened his eyes a half-second later, he saw the Cerberus ships off in the distance, still intact, while Omega's anti-ship batteries fired one final time, turning the last of the station's defense fleet into a blooming fireball of destruction. His eyes widened, horrified at the sight, but before he could react, darkness consumed him, and his corpse fell to the floor, deaf to the cruel laughter of Fate.

* * *

"It's done," said the Prophet as Omega's anti-ship guns fell quiet once more. He stepped over the lifeless husk of a slave as he moved from his position towards the ship's communication chief. "Inform the Blood Leader that he is free to land his rabble on the station as he please," he ordered as he loomed over the lesser man.

"Yes, great one."

The Prophet glanced around the bridge as the communication chief began speaking, before setting his eyes on Caldeus. "And get these bodies out of here."

* * *

The shuttle creaked and moaned as its pilot raced it towards the docking bay. From where he sat, Blood Leader Carsath looked around at the faces of those that accompanied him, rank and file Cerberus troopers eager to prove themselves in the crucible of war. Idly, he ran his thumb down the length of the monomolecular blade that the Illusive Man had gifted him before his departure for this operation, thoughts on the upcoming battle. Most likely, he would die, and so would all those that sat in the shuttle's cabin with him, but it mattered not. Khorne, the mighty god of blood, skulls, and honorable battle, was watching them today. If their life essence was the blood that stained the ground rather than their enemy's, then all that mattered was that they died honorably, having given their all in glorious battle.

One man stared back at him, matching Carsath's gaze with his own. The Blood Leader could see the kill-lust rising in the other man's eyes, becoming an almost irresistible urge. The trooper's breaths came faster and faster, and his hands twitched towards the combat knife that lay strapped at his side. If he let this continue you on for a few more moments, Carsath knew that blood would be spilled before they had even set eyes on their enemies.

"Enough," Carsath said sternly, pointing his blade at the other man. The tip extended across the distance that separated them and caressed the trooper's neck, drawing a thin line of blood where it rested. "If you so much as think about turning your weapon upon us, then I shall kill you myself. Unless you believe that you can take my skull by yourself?"

Slowly, reluctantly, the other man backed downwards, glaring hatefully as he did. Carsath ignored him, drawing his blade back to his lap. The sight of the other man's blood gracing the tip of the weapon made him smile tightly, thinking back to the duels to the deaths that he had won back on Cronos Station. Each participant had been eager for the right to be this operation's Blood Leader, as the Illusive Man had dubbed the chief warrior amongst the followers of Karnath. With each battle he had fought, he had anointed his blade with the vitae of his opponents, honoring the Blood God with their skulls, before finally he had knelt, the Illusive Man standing above him as he named him Blood Leader.

Now they were only moments from landing on Omega, in one of the station's many docking bays. Once aboard, they would proceed to slaughter any defenders who stood in their way, wreaking havoc upon the morale of the various mercenary bands. Beyond that, Carsath could not care. Let the Illusive Man have his schemes, so long as there was battle and blood.

 _"_ _Thirty seconds,"_ came the voice of the pilot over the shuttle's intercom, and Carsath nodded at his fellows, sheathing his sword as he stood up. The rest followed suit and lined up behind him, each one gripping their blades in eager anticipation.

"Slay any who stand against you," he snarled through his helmet, eyes never leaving the slab of metal that composed the shuttle door. "But do not kill any civilians. Their skulls will-"

 _"_ _Ten seconds."_

"-bring no honor to Khorne, and only shame upon yourselves. Let us baptize this galaxy in a torrent of blood that will wash away any who would think to stand against us!"

 _"_ _Go!"_

The door of the shuttle sprung open, and Carsath leapt out, booted feet finding purchase upon deck plates a moment later. The rest of the troopers poured out behind him, and the shuttle turned and left, returning to the ship that had brought them to Omega. There were still hundreds of warriors waiting to be ferried to the station, eager for their chance at glory.

Around them, a dozen other shuttles were disgorging their own passengers, and the wave of humanity charged forwards, towards the hunched forms of the station's defenders that were even now opening fire upon them.

"Blood for the Blood God!" bellowed Carsath as he plowed forward, heedless of the bodies crashing to the ground around him. Those who died now were weak, and neither he nor Khorne had any patience for the weak.

"Skulls for the skull throne!" roared the other Khornates in response. By now, the fastest amongst the Cerberus troopers were beginning to crash into the positions occupied by the defenders, and the screams and noises associated with close combat began to erupt all over the docking bay. The man in front of him grunted, staggering as his kinetic barriers flared, distinctive yellow light coming to life as they deflected a heavy shot from a Krogan's oversized rifle.

A veil of red descended over Carsath's eyes at the sight. Armor was one thing, but to him, kinetic barriers were tools of the weak. Either you were strong enough to reach your foe and kill him with your own hands, or were weak and had your skull claimed by Khorne. "Coward!" he screamed, spittle spraying the interior of his helmet as he overtook the man and decapitated him in one backhanded strike. "Do not think you can deny the Blood God your lifeblood so easily, scum!"

The Blood Leader jumped over the tumbling body, eyes set on the form of the hulking Krogan, who even now was putting down his massive gun and picking up an equally large hammer.

"Now here's a human that knows how to fight!" laughed the alien as Carsath reached him, swinging the hammer in a lazy blow that the Blood Leader easily sidestepped. "Have to admit, you've got a serious quad if you think you can take me with that tiny piece of metal!"

Carsath lashed outwards, sword tearing through the flesh on the Krogan's arm, only for the regenerative properties of the massive alien's physiology to close the wound moments later.

"Gonna have to try harder than that, human," said the Krogan with a toothy sneer. Carsath stabbed forward, narrowly missing one of the alien's eyes. The sneer disappeared as fast as it had arrived, fury welling up on the Krogan's visage.

The Krogan's hammer came down once more, the bulky xeno no doubt hoping to crush Carsath in one blow. Unfortunately for the Krogan, Carsath threw himself to the side at the last moment, and the deck plates that made up the floor of the hangar were hardly the sturdiest construction to be found in the galaxy. As a result, the hammer tore through them effortlessly, as if they were made from wet paper. The alien tried to tear the weapon free, but quickly found that the torn and twisted metal plating had wedged itself around the hammer's head. Abandoning his struggle, he forced Carsath back with a vicious headbutt.

The Blood Leader's helmet splintered under the impact, and he tore it free with a snarl. Blood dribbled down his chest from his broken nose, and he flung himself forward with reckless abandonment, determined to force the hulking xeno onto the back foot. For his troubles he was sent flying, launched backwards by a backhanded strike that moved far faster than he had anticipated.

"You fought well, for a human," the Krogan conceded as he lumbered over to Carsath's prone form. "Too bad you were more bark than bite though." With that, the alien raised one massive foot, and brought it downwards towards his head.

Carsath let it descend until the last moment, whereupon he rolled out of the way and jumped back up to his feet. "You think me so weak?" he growled as he leapt up onto the back of the confused Krogan before the other warrior realized fully what had just happened. "You think you can claim my skull so easily? I am the favored of Khorne, xeno! It is you who will die today!"

Having reached the apex of the Krogan's hump, he wrapped his arms around the alien's forehead and groped around, hands questing for a moment until his thumbs found purchase in the Krogan's eye sockets. Quickly applying pressure, Carsath was rewarded with painfully loud screams as his thumbs pressed harder and harder on the alien's eyes. The Krogan roared in agony, grasping Carsath's arms as he tried to throw him off, but the Blood Leader merely smiled grimly and held on tighter. Finally, the fleshy orbs ruptured, streams of orange pouring down the alien's face as the Krogan flailed about, blind.

Leaping down, Carsath drew his blade and plunged it into the Krogan's open maw, the monomolecular edge tearing through soft flesh and piercing the creature's brain. He quickly withdrew the weapon in a spray of gore as the Krogan's form collapsed to the ground, finally and truly dead.

Carsath could feel the eyes of his followers upon him as he reached down, grasping the bony crest that adorned the dead alien's head. With a grunt of effort, accompanied by the grotesque sound of tendons and flesh tearing apart, he ripped it free and held it aloft, bellowing his victory to all that could hear. In response, those warriors that still lived screamed back, yelling their devotion and praise to Khorne, while several lifted trophies of their own, taken from the bodies of the fallen defenders.

Satisfied, the Blood Leader dropped the crest and looked around. Less than half of the first wave still lived, but more were being deposited onto the station by the minute. "Forward!" he howled, lifting his weapon, still stained orange by the Krogan's blood, "Forward! To glorious battle! Slay all in the name of the Blood God! Blood and skulls!"

"Blood and skulls!" they echoed him, those that did not have trophies raising their weapons instead.

With that, he and the other warriors charged out of the hangar, each man seeking his glory in the fury of battle, as more and more Cerberus soldiers landed onto the station. Today, Carsath thought as he felled a pair of mercenaries as they tried to flee, the Blood God would be brought great honor.

Today, Carsath thought, Omega would fall.

 _A/N: With how fast the inspiration for this chapter came, I'm starting to wonder if I should have made the Iron Sentinels a Chaos warband and been done with it. There's just something about Chaos that's just really fun to write._

 _For those followers of the Grandfather and the devotees of the Dark Prince out there, have no fear, your time to shine will come next chapter._

 _Finally, remember kids, a review a day keeps the heresy away. Let me know how I'm doing, whether you like where this is going, or if the story just needs to be consigned to Exterminatus._


	17. The Pleasure of Despair

_Chapter 16: The Pleasure of Despair_

The reek of stale air, recycled countless times within this section of the depths of Omega, rushed to assault him as he drew in a deep lungful, even though the permeating aura of oldness did little to mask the stench of fear that was nigh-tangible here. The inhabitants of this block knew that few knew about them, and even fewer cared about them. Once, that had been a strength, sparing them from the worst excesses of the ceaseless gang warfare that wracked the station. Now, however, no one could be bothered to try and defend them, leaving them to the mercy of the Cerberus troops that now spread throughout the station like a virus.

Jonathon glanced around casually as he meandered down the cracked, ancient rockcrete that made up the street, headed towards a nondescript building, who's only defining mark was the unmistakable evidence that many people had hastily entered only recently. It was, he thought with a smile as he pushed open the slightly ajar door to the seemingly-abandoned dwelling, an apt metaphor, considering his position and role within the Cerberus assault. There were many half-forgotten places like this scattered throughout the station, their inhabitants merely trying to eke out a meager existence in a world that cared nothing for them, and he, along with a handful of others, were to ensure that they understood their place within the upcoming regime change.

One way or another, Jonathon thought as his eyes finally caught sight of what he had been searching for: a heavy metal hatch nestled away in a dark corner. Walking over, he pried it open and clambered down the rickety metal ladder that greeted him. Upon reaching the bottom, he slipped at hand into the battered coat that covered his armor and pulled out a rebreather. Donning it, he drew the coat around him tightly before making his way towards the entrance to the ancient emergency bunker, a relic from the days when Omega was still nothing more than an asteroid filled with eezo and the miners labored in incredibly unsafe conditions. It would not do for them to realize just what he was. Not yet, anyways.

He indulged himself for a moment after banging on the rusty metal slab that masqueraded as the bunker's door, lifting his rebreather for a split second and letting the stench of the air, the notes of fear that sprang to life in response to his knocking, and the overtones of despair that shrouded the entirety of the station. All of it blended together to form a heady concoction that was almost physically intoxicating to him.

A hoarse voice cut through his momentary lapse, and he glared at the door, furious at the interruption. Clearly the inhabitants had decided to respond to his intrusion. "Who the hell is it?" demanded a man's voice, it's owner obviously trying to project a sense of confidence. Too obviously, as he could plainly hear the nervousness underlying every syllable.

"Please," he faux-begged, careful to play the part of a piteous wretch desperately seeking shelter while not overdoing it. "I need in. Cerberus is getting closer and closer out there, and I don't want them to find me!"

There was a moment's pause, as the inhabitants most likely discussed amongst themselves what to do next. "How do we know you aren't Cerberus? How'd you even find this place in the first place?"

"I was hiding in the house above when I found the hatch," Jonathon lied, fighting back the urge to retch into his rebreather as he did. The Grandfather despised those who used deceit and treachery as their tools, but it was a painful necessity at the moment. "And besides," he continued, allowing a note of annoyance slip into his voice, "if I was Cerberus, would I have even bothered to knock?"

There was an even longer pause this time before the door began to hiss as hermetic seals disengaged. Part of him was surprised such mechanisms even still worked, but that was soon drowned out by an overwhelming sense of joy that spread through every inch of him. Now the hard part was over. Now the Grandfather could be praised through his deeds. Smiling beneath his rebreather, he moved through the now-open door and nodded at the man who stood glaring at him the entire time.

"Apologies for my friend here," said a woman that approached him smiling nervously, gesturing towards the doorkeeper. "He's only trying to keep us safe, you understand."

"Of course, of course," Jonathon said jovially, smile growing wider as the sound of the metal door closing echoed resoundingly through the survival bunker. "His suspicion was well-founded after all."

"What do you mean?" asked a man as he pushed his way through the crowd that was rapidly assembling to take a good look at the new arrival.

"That one can should never trust a stranger, not truly," Jonathon said, his smile dipping slightly into a sneer. "Only family can be trusted unconditionally." And, he added mentally as he glanced around at the assembled faces, all within would soon learn the true value of being a part of Nurgle's family.

It took the civilians a moment to pierce together what he had meant by those words, but the sharpest amongst them caught on surprisingly fast. Clever, he thought as murmurs turned into shouts of fear, and the civilians collectively flinched away from him, as if he were about to pull a weapon then and there. Jonathon shook his head minutely at the idea. As if he were as simple and crude as the followers of the War God were.

"You're one of them, aren't you?" asked the other man, his voice a mixture of defiance and fear. "One of Cerberus?"

Jonathon smiled pleasantly beneath his rebreather, raising his hand brush away his jacket and to tap the icon that was emblazoned upon the remains of his half-dissolved shoulder plate. "You wouldn't be wrong about that, my friend."

He shook his head pityingly as the assembled civilians recoiled in fear once more as their suspicions were proven to be well-founded, and hands began reaching for holdout weapons. "Please!" he begged, speaking loudly so that all might hear. "I didn't come here as your enemy!"

"Bullshit!" spat one of the civilians. A woman, in what looked like her late thirties, he noted idly. "You people murdered so many people when you came here! You killed my husband and my son!"

"A regrettable act, to be sure," Jonathon said, coughing slightly as he conceded the point. "But have you considered that while we may seem like your enemy, your true enemies are the ones who claim to be defending you?"

"What are you saying?" asked a man who was shakily holding a mass accelerator towards his rebreather.

"I'm saying that you so eagerly call me your enemy, simply because I wear the emblem of Cerberus. But what about the mercenary gangs? What about Aria? The ones who have exploited and oppressed you for year after year, growing fat off your misery?"

Weapons paused, their wielders beginning to glance at one another. Jonathon smiled behind his mask. Now they were thinking. Now they were remembering just how miserable their lives had been before Cerberus had come to the station.

"You say that I am your enemy, but when in reality, Cerberus is your salvation. Your guns should be pointed at those who view your lives as currency, rather than at us, who are here to bring liberation from your alien oppressors, and the light of the gods to you!"

"Gods?" sneered the second man, mass accelerator still pointed at Jonathon's rebreather. "Everyone knows the old religions are dead you idiot. Alien life and all that? What, did Cerberus not get the memo or something? There are no gods, and your invasion is nothing more than that. And that's the truth of the matter, no matter what sort of shit you spew."

Several of the civilians laughed at that, and more weapons were pointed in his direction. Jonathon shook his head, appalled by their blindness even though he understood it. After all, had it not been only a short time ago that he too had been like them, ignorant to the harsh realities that underscored the universe?

"The truth?" he sneered mockingly, reaching up and yanking off his rebreather as he did. The crowd gasped at his hideously bloated and corrupted face, tumors of corruption and waves of rot clearly visible upon his face even in the low red light of the survival bunker. "The _truth_ , my good man, is in the bacteria that you inhaled the moment I entered this bunker. You most likely thought it was just another lungful of stale, refiltered Omegan air, but the truth, which you seem to so highly prize, is that even now your insides are slowly becoming more and more bloated. Soon, the viruses and diseases that are even now incubating deep within you will bloom, and you will die. Most painfully, I might add."

The enclosed space of the bunker echoed with yells of disbelief and indignation, yells that quickly shifted to screams of despair and shouts of pain as the signs of the corruption within them became more and more obvious. Skin became pallid and corpse-like, outbreaks of coughing spread like wildfire, and a few even began vomiting pools of diseased blood onto the floor.

"The complete _truth_ however," gurgled Jonathon with morbid glee, his voice no longer disguised by his rebreather, "is that not only will you be dead, but you will also rise again as mindless plague zombies in the loving service of the Grandfather." He drew a rattling breath, his throat riddled with phlegm, before continuing. "Of course, it doesn't have to end like that."

"W-what?" gasped one of the civilians, her body wracked by spasms. "How?"

"Accept," he murmured, the smile on his face now genuine. "Accept the corruption within you. Grandfather is always happy to accept new followers within his flock. He cannot stand to see you like this you know. All he wants is for you to be happy in his embrace, and to spread his love to others. Accept, and this trial will be made into a blessing!"

One of the civilians gasped, a hoarse death rattle expelled from his lungs as his body collapsed onto the floor. A flash of cruel vindication spread through him as he noted that it was the man who had mocked him for his belief. His soul would go on to become a plaything for the daemons that infested Nurgle's garden, and there would be no denying the existence of the divine for him as his spiritual essence was ripped to shreds.

"So fall all unbelievers," he sneered, coughing slightly as he did. "If you will not serve the Grandfather in life, then you shall serve him in death. Such is the Cycle of Decay, the holy creed by which all must abide."

More collapsed with each passing second, their bodies twisted and bloated beyond recognition as the blessings of Nurgle raced through their bloodstreams. But a few remained standing, fighting through the pain and agony. Jonathon nodded approvingly at them, choosing to ignore the few hateful stares that they could muster despite the terrible pain. The Grandfather smiled upon those who were strong enough to stand against him, even if it were only for a fleeting time.

"Please," murmured one of the few remainders, the skin on her face becoming more and more plaid with each second. "Make it stop, make it stop," she repeated endlessly, a mindless mantra that accompanied the ending of her life.

"Accept, and Grandfather Nurgle will bless you beyond even your wildest dreams," Jonathon said as he bent down and caressed her face, feeling the blistering heat that emanated from her. "Accept, and you will never feel pain again."

The woman looked up at him with broken eyes, and he smiled at the despair contained within. "Ok," she said, voice barely louder than a whisper.

Still smiling, Jonathon straightened back upwards, his eyes never leaving her prone form as he felt the Warp _shift_ around him. The woman's form twisted and shuddered as the love gifted freely by Nurgle raced through her very essence, transforming her into a vessel of plague. He fought back a pang of jealousy at the sight. The Grandfather was very free with his gifts when he deemed the recipient worthy of them, and Jonathon hoped that what he and his fellows sought to accomplish today would make him very worthy indeed.

As the twisted form of the woman and several others who had been illuminated pushed their way off the rusted metal of the floor, he gestured towards the rotted forms of those who had died defiantly. A flicker of the Warp pulsed through him, binding their lifeless forms to the wills of him and the newest followers of Nurgle, and they too began to rise. "Brothers and sisters!" he said, letting his voice echo through the bunker. "Truly we have been blessed this day, for the Grandfather has smiled down upon us from within his garden of rot. Let this be the sign, undeniable and terrible, that shatters the hopes of this galaxy and leaves it to fester in the miasma of its despair!"

And as he watched his newfound comrades gurgle their praises to the Plaguefather, Jonathon heard the laughter of Nurgle echo through his soul, slowly changing him bit by bit. He would be truly blessed after this was all over, provided he survived. And surviving meant moving on with the next phase of the plan. The Illusive Man had more than amply proven time and again that he had little patience for failure, and that had been before Cerberus had been enlightened.

"Come, brethren," he said as he gestured towards the bunker door. "Let us go and spread the blessings of Nurgle. None can stand before us, for none can resist the call of decay!"

There were no battle cries as plague-ridden forms shuffled out of the bunker and upwards into the streets of Omega, for the deceased needed no such herald of their coming. There were no shouts of unity as Jonathon led them to meet up with several, similar, groups led by other heralds of Nurgle, for rot broke down such traditional bonds of brotherhood. And there were no howls of triumphs when the shuffling, pain-resistant plague zombies drowned the desperate defenders of the closest major life support sub-system before repurposing it to pump out a dozen different diseases and poisonous gases, bathing swathes of Omega in death and pestilence.

For the triumph of death, Jonathon, thought contentedly as hordes of plague zombies and despair-addled worshippers of Nurgle marched past him towards the remaining sections of Omega that still held out against the Cerberus assault, was inevitable.

* * *

"This whole place is fucked, yeah?"

Barthod sighed deeply as he glanced over at the Salarian that had spoken, half-listening to the frog rambled on once again about how everything had gone to hell in a handbasket for the third time that hour. Guarding Afterlife was a fairly easy job, Cerberus invasion notwithstanding, and the pay was double what he had been making before. Still, he could think of far better company to pass the time with. "You don't say?" he asked dryly, layering on the sarcasm so thickly that even a brain damaged Krogan would have no problem recognizing it.

Sadly, for him, the Salarian, who went by the name of Greth, failed to notice it. "Walking dead? Strange powers? Insane berserkers rampaging through the station? Open those damn four eyes of yours and perhaps you'd see, moron! And now that they've taken all the hangars, we're stuck here with them. So yes, I do say!"

Barthod grunted, looking away. The Salarian was correct, of course, but he would not give him the pleasure of agreement. The truth of the matter was that Barthod _was_ scared. Ever since the new Cerberus fleet had translated in-system a few days ago, the situation, which previously been just fine, had gone down the shitter faster than he could blink all four of his eyes. The station's defenses had been destroyed without a shot being fired, boarders had forced their way onto Omega with little effort, and stranger, more impossible, things had been reported since.

It was enough to make a Batarian think. Such as if those Reapers that everyone had initially been so worked about were even the real threat after all. After seeing what Cerberus was capable, he would have taken the giant sentient death machines any day of the week over those psychotic freaks.

At least the Reapers would have the basic decency to kill you, for the most part. Some of the things that Barthod had seen while out on patrol still gave him nightmares, and he was certain that there were far worse things that he had not seen.

"Heads up," grunted a Krogan coming up behind him and Greth, breaking him out of his reverie. "One of the outposts near here just went dark without any warning."

"Which one?" demanded Greth.

"C16," said the hulking ball of armor and redundant organs, his hands tightening on the massive shotgun that he carried slightly.

"C16's supposed to be behind our established lines I thought," Barthod said as he hurried to put his helmet on, the piece of equipment hissing at it hermetically sealed.

"So did the rest of us," said the Krogan. "But C16 hasn't reported in for the past thirty minutes, and neither has the patrol we sent out to check in on it. So, shut your hole and suit up already."

"Right, right," grumbled Greth as he grappled with his rebreather before placing it over his face. "Really no idea?"

"That's what I just said, you stanking lizard," snarled the Krogan before he turned and walked towards another group of mercenaries.

"Fucking Krogan, I swear," sneered the Salarian as he slid a heat sink into his assault rifle. "Genophage was too good for them. We should've-"

"Eyes open," Barthod interrupted him as the doors to Afterlife slid open. "I think we're about to find out what happened to C16, one way or another."

The new arrivals were difficult to discern for the first few moments, a normally fatal slip in any other situation, but these beings strode into Afterlife with a casual air. The first thing that caught his eyes was the color of their armor. Barthod had seen hundreds of different mercenary bands over the course of his time on Omega, and he had thought he had seen everything when it came to color schemes. One Asari-only group, he remembered, had painted their armor an obnoxious, blaringly loud shade of neon pink with no regard for such elegant things like common sense or taste. But the garish mishmash of colors, applied haphazardly without thought or care, threw him off to such a degree that if the intruders had not borne the insignia of Cerberus on their shoulders then he would have never suspected them, the colors so far away from the default black, white, and gold that the organization usually sported.

Moments after he had taken in the sight of their armor came the cloying, sickeningly sweet stench of death mixed with the oppressive aroma of a blend of incense and perfume wafted through the air, disregarding his helmet's filters with ease and tearing his mind between responding with revulsion and pleasure. And their faces…

If his nose had left him conflicted, then the sight of their exposed faces left him with no doubt. Hundreds of minute scars traced their way across every inch of pale skin, seemingly haphazardly so. Yet the longer Barthod stared, the more and more he found himself drawn in by them, the marks, some shallow and barely noticeable while others were deep and jagged, coming together to form a whole that was deeply hypnotic. Shaking his head, he slammed his palm into the back of Greth's head.

"Eyes open," he said to the confused Salarian over their shared comm-link. "Something's very wrong here."

"Something's been wrong since we started getting reports of walking dead," snarled back Greth. "Got anything new for me?"

"Yeah, keep an eye on those swords," Barthod shot back, jerking his chin toward the pieces of metal gripped in the hands of the Cerberus warriors. "I don't know why the hell they're using them, it's not like they're Krogan. Still-"

"Yeah, I get it. Now shut the hell up wise guy, here comes Aria."

Barthod's four eyes blinked as he noticed the self-styled Queen of Omega stalk her way towards them, every single movement weighed and judged carefully beforehand in order to maximize the appearance of an alpha predator staring down its prey. But for him, who had served Aria for years now, he could see the barest of glimmers, so small that if he had not been so experienced in all of the Asari's subtleties he would have dismissed it as a delusion. But there they were, laid out before his eyes.

Aria was nervous, no matter how much she tried to cover it up. And if Aria was scared…

Barthod's eyes shot back towards the Cerberus soldiers, eyeing them more cautiously than before. If he had thought something was wrong with them before, now he was fully on edge, his nerves screaming at him to act. Fingers coiled tightly around the foregrip of his weapon, while his eyes narrowed in anticipation of bloodshed.

"I see that Cerberus has had to resort to the dregs for this operation," the self-styled Queen of Omega said liltingly, any previous hint of nervousness that Barthod might have glimpsed nowhere to be found within her voice. "Finally given up? Has that fool of a general sent you to ask for terms of surrender?"

A blink followed by a look of disgust that spread across the face of the one who must have been the leader of the disparate group. "You must be Aria then, if you think you can address me so," the man said, his voice pitching disturbingly as he spoke.

Barthod gripped his weapon tightly. He had thought he had heard every way a human could speak before now, from young to old, sober to pumped full of red sand and alcohol, yet it was clear that there was something terribly wrong here. The man's voice had been more than just inhuman, it had been just plain _wrong_.

"Oh?" Aria asked sharply. If she had been perturbed by the human, then she showed no sign of it. "And who might you be, if you're so full of yourself?"

"You'd like that, wouldn't you? But no. You aren't worthy, you alien bitch. None of you are." With that proclamation, the man's face smoothed out, and his tone became pleasant. Barthod sought to regain his mental footing once more as the human continued. "Still, I must correct you about your questioning. No, we are not here at the behest of that weakling Petrovsky, nor are we here to surrender."

The human raised his hand, and Barthod could see, even in the dim lighting of Afterlife, that one of the digits was missing, while the remainder of the appendage twitched erratically. "We've come here for you, Aria."

"If you think you can take me alive," Aria warned dangerously, "then you are sorely mistaken."

"Oh no, my good Queen, you misunderstand us," purred the human, his hand twitching more and more obviously with each passing second. "We didn't come here to capture you, or to surrender, or anything like that. No, the reason for why we are here is quite simple."

With that, the human's eyes took on a feverish gleam as he stared down Aria. "We're here to kill you, and everyone else in this pathetic excuse of a pit of sin." The human sneered before he spat onto the filthy floor. "Really, whores, alcohol, and drugs? How disappointing in its banality. There is no passion to be found here, but in the name of the Dark Prince we will show you _true_ immorality."

There was a brief flare of blue before the speaker was blown away in a blaze of biotic power, Aria howling irately as she was finally allowed to let loose with all her frustrations and fears.

Disturbingly painted figures exploded in coronas of biotic power as the Asari matriarch bent her considerable strength towards destruction, while mercenaries opened fire from all around the club. In response, the sword wielders rushed forward, howling in pained joy as their bodies absorbed the punishment unleashed upon them and their blades flashed brightly through the air.

Greth was one of the first to die, greenish blood spurting out in torrents as a sword tip exploded out from the back of his neck, before the sword's owner twisted it and sent it flying away. Barthod gunned down the one responsible for the Salarian's death in a brutal staccato of mass accelerator rounds, sending the man to the floor to writhe weakly, though whether it was from pain or pleasure, he was hard pressed to say.

Afterlife was awash with a hurricane of color and noise. Screams of despair, laughter of the damned, and death cries all fought to take precedence as both sides butchered each other indiscriminately. Barthod shot down another sword wielder before another leapt in and pierced through his rifle. Rather than try to regain control of the now-useless lump of metal, he dropped it and brought his pistol to bear, unleashing a hail of rounds that brought the Cerberus madman down.

He turned to target another one of the bizarrely-colored humans when he felt the pommel of a sword slam into the faceplate of his helmet, the armor shattering beneath the force of the blow. He stumbled backwards, hands grasping blindly at the ruin of his face, only for whoever had dealt the blow to follow up and run him through, impaling him into Afterlife's wall.

A gasp of pain escaped him as metal twisted as it slid out of his gut, leaving him to slide uselessly onto the floor. Through the blood that clouded the three eyes that remained to him, he could see his killer step away and back towards the fight, such that remained of it. Most of the mercenaries were down, either dead or dying. What few that did remain were clustered around Aria, but even they were falling to blades or other, more esoteric weaponry.

The remainder did not take long to fall, with Aria herself lasting the longest before one of the Cerberus soldiers took her head off with a spectacular blow. The few remaining Cerberus troopers let out a hysterical, deranged cheer at the sight of the Queen of Omega's death, while Barthod could only groan and whimper in agony as more and more of his blood pooled outwards onto the club floor.

The noise attracted the attention of one of the Cerberus troopers, his armor a riot of bright lilac and void black. Walking over, he bent down and observed Barthod for a moment before seemingly reaching a decision. Reaching out, he grasped a broken shard of metal from the wreckage of his helmet and brought it down and across one of his eyes. It was all he could do not to scream in pain. He refused to give the human the pleasure.

"Merely a taste of what's to come, I assure you. It wouldn't do for you to die quite yet," the human crooned.

"You said," he slurred pathetically, rich red blood oozing out between shattered teeth and lacerated gums as he desperately tried to form words at the creature crouching over him, "you said you'd kill us."

"And I will," the human said as he crouched down, hand stretching outward to gently caress Barthod's shattered face. "But not yet, I'm afraid to say. The Dark Prince will be quite pleased with the agony you will experience before the end, I think. What I have in mind will be _exquisite,_ and I dearly hope that you'll agree with me, in-between all the screams."

With that, the hand shifted downwards, grasping haphazardly at Barthod's devastated armor, its owner uncaring of the surge of blood that sprang forth from the nasty gash that the sharp edges inflicted upon it. As his vision dimmed and the floor became the only thing he could see through his remaining two eyes, all that Barthod could hope was that he managed to bleed out before they reached their destination.

* * *

"Sir, the reports are coming in now," came the voice of Captain Swanson from his right. The dull orange cast from the omni-terminals scattered about the bridge backlit the captain of the _Erebus_ , highlighting the hint of nervousness that had taken home upon his face.

"More phenomenon?" asked Petrovsky, his eyes never leaving the space station lay before him.

"Yes General," Swanson said, gesturing towards him with a data-pad. When Petrovsky made no attempt to reach for it, he retracted it with awkward hesitation. Petrovsky bit back a sigh at the sight, knowing that Swanson and the rest of the men under his command looked to him for guidance, now more than ever. His brooding, even under the best of circumstances, would have been inexcusable.

Inexcusable, but perhaps not understandable. Ever since the pair of Cerberus ships had arrived in-system over a week ago, everything had rapidly gone downhill. At first, the strange happenings had been easy to rationalize away. When he had witnessed the sight of Omega's anti-ship batteries opening fire against the defense fleet, he had easily managed to dismiss it as an advanced virus designed by Cerberus' elite hackers specifically for the situation. When the initial assault wave that successfully secured landing points for the bulk of their forces to land on the station had been reported to be little more than frothing berserkers screaming their lungs out about blood, skulls and a god of war, he had filed them away as drugged up ex-cons, forcefully recruited by Cerberus to serve as a source of expendable manpower.

But the oddities had kept piling up. From supposed mystics who harnessed energies that were very pointedly not biotics, to howled praises to various gods, each and every report had steadily worn down his willing blindness. When Major Stefan had personally informed him about the various rituals that were being performed upon the captured and the heaps of dead left in Cerberus' wake, both mercenaries and civilians, he had finally broken down and contacted the so-called Prophet that had spoken to him when reinforcements had first arrived.

Whatever hopes he had still nourished at that point were gone, never to return. When faced with Petrovsky's accusations and shown hard evidence of his force's actions, the Prophet had merely laughed. This, the other man had condescendingly explained, as an adult would to a child, was progress in the making. This was the future of mankind. The veil of unwitting blindness would be stripped away from the eyes of the galaxy, and only those with the strength of will to accept their places within the designs of the gods would have any hope of surviving.

Petrovsky had been disgusted with it all, of course. He had threatened. He had raged. But when he had sworn he would take everything he had and go to the Illusive Man in order to bring punishment down upon the Prophet, he had been stopped cold by one simple, uncaring declaration.

 _"You think I do this of my own volition? The Illusive Man was the one who authorized all of this. The one to_ enlighten _us. You rage futilely against the light of progress, General, for treading the Path to Glory is what will truly bring our species to the fore."_

That was when he had stopped talking and begun planning.

But for all the inherent necessity in what he and Swanson had begun preparing for, still he felt his mind protesting vehemently. He supposed that was good, for otherwise he would end up like the madmen who wore Cerberus' colors these days. Necessity was something to be endured, rather than relished in.

"Swanson, my apologies. My behavior has been absolutely atrocious over the past few days," he said as he turned to face the other man, forcing aside some of his misgivings as he did. Ill thoughts or not, he was a general, and generals were expected to lead, not mope about uselessly.

"It's fine, General. You've had a lot to think about recently," reassured the captain of the _Erebus_. "It gave me time to work on our, ah, _project_." Swanson's eyes narrowed meaningfully.

"Of course," Petrovsky said smoothly, not missing a heartbeat. "I trust you have the report for me?"

"Not on me, but yes. I delivered it to your cabin, but it seems you've not returned to it since then."

Petrovsky blinked, then felt a rush of relief at the captain's discreetness. They had a good measure of where the crew's loyalty would fall for the most part, but there was no sense in taking unnecessary risks. "Well then, I'll go take a look at it now then. I'd like your personal input, Swanson."

"Of course, General."

The walk to the General's quarters from the command deck was mercifully short, every step accentuating the mounting tension that the pair felt.

"Report," Petrovsky said the moment the scrambler device that he had installed within his desk reported that it was operational. A heartbeat later the automatic doors let out a dull _thunk_ as manually-initiated lockdown went into effect, triggered by the scrambler.

"As per your request sir," Swanson began, any hint of nervousness gone now that he could speak without fear of any unwanted attention, "I approached the other high-ranking officers of the fleet with your inquiry, along with conducting a thorough examination of our crews and their known dispositions."

"I trust that you were discreet in your questioning, Captain?"

"Yes, General," Swanson reassured him.

"Then start with the results of your examination first."

"Very well," Swanson said as he reproduced the data-pad from earlier, this time inputting a series of codes that brought up a heavily encrypted file buried deep within its systems. Handing it over to Petrovsky for inspection, he continued, "Enclosed you will find three lists. The first contains every crewmember and the ship that they are assigned to. The second contains every man and woman on the first list that has previously expressed a marked devotion to the advancement of Cerberus."

"I see," Petrovsky noted as he flipped between the series of lists, absently taking note of names that he recognized personally. "And the third?"

"Definite trouble," Swanson said without blinking. "Crew that will undoubtedly follow everything that comes down from the Illusive Man, no matter how… distasteful the order might be to men of principle."

"Men of principle," Petrovsky mused quietly as he took in the names on the third list. "What are we without principle?" He flipped between the second and third lists, trying to ascertain the numbers that added up between the two of them. "How many?" he asked after a few seconds.

"Nearly sixty from the third list," Swanson said, while Petrovsky's face hardened into stone at the number. "That's the best case. The second list contains those that we might be able to persuade to our cause, but in the worst case? Nearly two hundred."

Petrovsky cast his eyes back downwards at the data-pad, the innocuous electronic suddenly seeming to weigh a thousand pounds. Even if the best-case scenario came to pass, he was still consigning dozens of men and women to death, individuals who had in some cases served alongside him for years.

"And that is before we add on the next part of our discussion," Swanson said. "I misspoke when I said that the lists contain every crewmember in the fleet."

Petrovsky looked up at Swanson's grim face. "Explain," he demanded.

"I spoke with the other ship captains, as you requested, and all but one of them are with us. Captain Rast of the _London_ was rather taken by the events occurring on Omega when I spoke with him. It was all he would talk about, if I may be completely honest with you. I could barely get a word in edgewise. As such, I saw fit to remove the _London_ 's crew from the lists."

Petrovsky grimaced. Rast. He should have figured. Rast was a true diehard, fanatically devoted to the Illusive Man, rather than any nominal goal of Cerberus. To hear that Rast would need to be dealt with before they could proceed did not surprise him in the slightest, even if he did not relish what had to be done.

"Do you think he suspects?"

Swanson snorted derisively in response. "General, it's Rast. Good at the helm of a ship, but not the brightest when it comes to anything else. I was sufficiently subtle with him. He's still in the dark."

"Good," Petrovsky said as he glanced downwards at the data-pad once more. "Have we received any word as to the current state of Omega's anti-ship batteries?"

"According to my understanding, the batteries are still intact, but firmly within sectors under the control of Cerberus." Swanson's face twisted in response to his own statement. "Cerberus. Here I am treating the organization to which I gave my loyalty for years as the enemy."

"Because as of a few days ago, Captain, they became just that," Petrovsky said sternly. "Even if we didn't recognize that fact at that time."

"I know," Swanson conceded quickly. "Still, it feels strange, that's all. The whole galaxy has gone mad, and it feels like we're caught right in the middle of all of it."

Petrovsky sighed gustily at that. "I know exactly how you feel Swanson." A long moment passed before he continued, "Is there anyone from the _London_ that you think can be salvaged?"

"A few, but not many. Mostly low-ranking ensigns and senior non-coms. Those with any real authority are loyal to Rast first and you second, while the greenest crew are loyal to the Illusive Man alone."

"And you have a means of getting them off the _London_?"

Swanson nodded confidently at that. "I'll send a message requesting their presence aboard the _Erebus_. I'll say that you asked me to come up with a cross-ship training program for experience amongst different ship classifications, and that the group is a trial run." Swanson narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, before adding, "We could take the opportunity the send some of our unreliables in exchange as well."

"In the middle of a warzone?" Petrovsky asked, eyes narrowing.

"Trial by fire," Swanson assured him, "No better time, really. Besides, the space around Omega is secured, so if Rast protests then I can assure him that there is no real danger."

Petrovsky grunted, then nodded appreciatively. "Rast'll find the situation to be highly unusual, to be sure, but there's no way he'll suspect the reality. Alright, do it."

"Yes, General," saluted Swanson. "Then with your permission, I'll begin drawing the appropriate crewmembers from the _Erebus_ ' roster for the swap, along with notifying the other captains at once about going ahead with our plans."

"Granted," Petrovsky said curtly, disabling the scrambler and releasing the manual lockdown as he did. "For the advancement of humanity."

"For the advancement of humanity," echoed Swanson.

As the Captain turned and left, the only signs of his passage the data-pad still in his hand and the hiss of the automatic door, Petrovsky could only wonder at how it had all come to this.

* * *

The days had passed by agonizingly slowly, with Petrovsky growing ever more nervous and short with his subordinates as time stretched onwards. Preparations were moving forward smoothly, but each step had to be taken with extreme caution, lest the Cerberus loyalists, both in his fleet and the ones that had arrived with the self-styled Prophet, catch wind of what he was planning.

Finally, however, the time had come. Petrovsky's fleet was conducting, what was by all appearances, a routine patrol action through the system, while the two more recent arrivals were docked with Omega undergoing resupply. The _London_ , commanded by Captain Rast, was at the fore of the fleet formation, while the _Erebus_ floated serenely amidst its heart.

"Has the _Delhi_ sent the signal?" he demanded testily, turning towards Swanson as he spoke.

"Just now, General. Captain Johnson sent out a message stating that the _Delhi_ 's mass effect core is undergoing abnormal fluctuations and is reducing engine output until its engineers can apply emergency repairs. Estimated time remaining is five minutes Earth standard."

"Very well," he said curtly, turning to face the rest of the bridge crew. Every one of them had been briefed about what they were about to do and why they had to do it, and the apprehension and tension that Petrovsky felt churning in his gut was clearly reflected on their faces. Despite that, however, he could also clearly see their resolve. There would be no hesitation from them. "Send the order to bring the fleet to matching speeds. Once the _London_ is within optimal firing range of the rest of the fleet, have us open fire."

"Aye, General."

He allowed a grim smile to spread across his face for a moment before turning back to the command deck's viewport. Off in the distance, he could see the tiny spot that delineated the _Delhi_ turning slowly, achingly so, towards the spot that he knew to be the _London_.

Minutes passed by, though they felt more like hours.

Finally, Swanson spoke, his voice slicing through the tension. "Fleet is in position, General," he reported.

Petrovsky inhaled deeply, before activating the priority channel that had the technicians set up between him and the Captains that he knew would follow him. "Commence," was all that he said, all that needed to be said.

Beneath his feet, the _Erebus_ shuddered as its kilometer-long mass accelerator opened fire upon the ship that, until only a week ago, had been its sister. Around him, the CIC sprang to life as crewmembers sprung into action, relaying orders and bringing the warship to active combat-status.

"Target hit," reported one of the gunnery ensigns. " _London_ 's shields are failing. Estimated time before shutdown is thirty seconds."

"General, the Cerberus net just exploded with activity. Whatever's installed on those two new ships, it's not being affected by our jamming," shouted another ensign. "They know what we're up to."

Petrovsky did not deign to reply. By the time they were done with their task, the two ships would still be undergoing disengagement protocols, and even then, they would still have an hour before they could feasibly intercept the _Erebus_ and its escorts.

The _Erebus_ and its sister ships continued to fire, pounding the _London_ over the course of several minutes before a mass accelerator shell punctured the heavy cruiser's mass effect core, causing it to detonate spectacularly for a brief moment before the void of space settled upon its corpse like a mortuary shroud. Their task done, the fleet of ex-Cerberus ships set course for the system's Mass Relay at flank speed, leaving Omega and their former comrades behind them.

As they approached the Relay several hours later, Swanson approached him, steps unsure and hesitant.

"Sir, the other Captains report that its done. All Cerberus loyalists have been purged," he said.

"Our casualties?" asked Petrovsky, his eyes never leaving the viewport before him.

"A few dozen, only nine of which are dead," Swanson said before joining him in gazing out the viewport. After a moment, the Captain turned to face him.

"If you'll forgive my temerity, General, what now? We've left Cerberus behind, and made quite the statement while doing so, but what do we do now?"

Petrovsky shook his head slowly, before glancing over. "I don't know, but someone needs to hear about this madness." Glancing back towards the viewport, he added, "And soon."


	18. The Greatest of Them All

_Chapter 17: The Greatest of Them All_

The _Duty's Shadow_ erupted from the Warp with all the usual grace that accompanied a translation from the Empyrean. Feral tribesmen, descended from crewmen lost amidst the winding tunnels and scattered across forgotten decks, would suffer from haunting nightmares for days, while scores of servitors went rogue and battled each other mindlessly while their techpriest overseers ruthlessly ran calculations as to how to improve upon the next batch that they would grow to replace the ferals. As the rift to unreality slid closed behind the _Shadow_ , the Navigator dispatched a message to the command deck, informing the Shipmaster of another successful Warp jump.

Nemros, for his part, was busy holding council with his chief officers amidst the carefully controlled chaos of the command deck, receiving and processing reports from the Shipmaster with one enhanced ear, while the other focused on the words of Techmarine Manswell, who stood in front of him.

"At the current rate of expenditure," Manswell was extrapolating in the stilted, technical way of speaking characteristic to all sons and daughters of Mars, "Our ammunition supplies will last us four years, Terra standard, regarding small arms and heavy weapons. Three months with regards to shipborne armaments. Expect that duration to decrease as further engagements are conducted more frequently. Promethium supplies estimated to last eight months, while need for replacement of equipment parts and power armor pieces will increase exponentially overtime."

"Is there anything you can salvage? Anything that you can do to increase the amount of time?" Nemros pressed the red-clad Techmarine.

A long burst of static and binary slipped out from Manswell's vox-grill, as if Nemros had just blasphemed against the Omnissiah. Given the sometimes strange views that the scions of the Red Planet held regarding technology, he could very well have. "Power armor will be the easiest to replace. We managed to salvage several suits worth of parts from our fallen brothers, and a number more are easily repairable," Manswell said after a moment. "The _Shadow_ has limited production facilities aboard, but for anything approaching serious resupply we would require a working forgeworld and a planet dedicated to the extraction of promethium."

"And such requirements are not so easily fulfilled. Very well. Xeras, you said you-"

"Captain," interrupted Davriel from atop his command throne, "We have a message coming from the Citadel, marked as highest priority."

Nemros snorted in response. "And what do those xenos want from us now?" he demanded.

"They request your presence in their Council chambers. However," the Shipmaster's eyes narrowed as he parsed the message further. "They wish for you to listen to an attached transmission first. They claim that it will help you understand why they request you meet with them immediately."

"Xenos playing at the role of illuminated beings," scoffed Xeras. "Such arrogance. I had not realized that the Eldar took over during our absence."

"Play it," Nemros said, silencing Xeras with an upheld hand. "Let us hear what has them so riled up."

Davriel nodded, gesturing towards one of the Chapter serfs stationed at the comms section of the command deck. The man pressed the blinking rune on his station, and the words that emitted sent silence spreading through the command deck as all activity stopped to listen to the message.

The command deck practically exploded with a riot of emotions after it finished, while Nemros captured the gaze of Xeras and Manswell. No words were needed as the three of them headed off towards the hangar.

* * *

 _Treachery._

 _The thought was unthinkable, yet the evidence that surrounded him was undeniable. The blood of sworn Brothers comingled about his ceramite-shod feet, while war cries and the roars of chainswords and bolters split the air with their fury. Stalking through the halls of the_ Luna's Reach _, he made his way deeper and deeper into the bowels of the Strike Cruiser, searching for the cause of this madness._

 _A legionnaire leapt for him, tearing past the falling form of one of his former Brothers to reach him, chainaxe screaming as it sought to devour his lifeblood. Ducking beneath the blow, he grabbed the other Astartes' arm, holding it still while thrusting his own weapon up into the warrior's armpit, where the joint in the armor left him vulnerable. Gore sprayed through the air as his chainsword found its way into the Astartes' twin hearts, snuffing out his life in an instant._

 _Seeing the sudden and brutal death of his comrade, another legionnaire rushed in without hesitation, shouting oaths of vengeance as he did. Raising his pistol, the Centurion put two bolts into the Astartes' chest plate, blasting out great chunks of ceramite and flesh, stopping his reckless charge cold. The traitor was sent crashing to the floor with a roar of pain and a clatter of power armor._

 _Stomping over, heedless of the assorted entrails that were beginning to flow from the gaping chest wound, he reached down and yanked the traitor's head upright, forcing him to face him._

 _"Where is he?" he bellowed, tightening his hold until bone creaked beneath his grip. "Where is that treacherous whoreson?"_

 _The other warrior coughed, sending a mouthful of rich blood trickling down his face and onto the floor. "Further in," he gasped, "Near the Warp drive, you bastard. May he send your soul screaming to the Dark Gods!"_

 _"There are no gods, you delusional bastard," said the Centurion before dropping the other Astartes and bringing his foot down onto his skull, producing a very satisfying_ crunch.

 _With a glance, he looked up, casting his gaze down the corridor leading him towards his destination. Taking a moment to load another clip into his bolt pistol, he set off once more, determined to find answers._

* * *

To say Nemros strode into the Council chambers would be an understatement. The pair of Turians standing guard over the entrance were practically bowled over by the hulking forms of the trio of black, gray, and red Astartes, only a last second scramble backwards saving them from being trampled.

"Ah, Captain Nemros," Sparatus said graciously, diplomatically choosing to overlook the manner through which the Astartes had entered. "It is good to see you again. The news that we have received from Nova Terra are-"

"Throne," hissed Nemros as he came to a halt before the raised platform upon which the Councilors stood, "Emperor preserve me from your unending false pleasantries xeno. You know why I am here. Tell me."

For a moment, Sparatus was left flustered by Nemros' brusqueness, causing Tevos to sweep in to pick up where her colleague had been cut off. "As he was saying," she said sharply, "We appreciate what you did on Nova Terra. All of it, even the regrettable ending. To say that the common people of the galaxy are talking about you who be woefully inadequate."

Nemros grunted, before gesturing for her to continue. He had heard nothing but endless platitudes ever since their arrival at the Citadel, his path to the Citadel Tower lined by those cheering the arrival of a hero, one who had done more than simply fight. In their eyes, he was a god of war, leader of other titans that strode the battlefield, bringing destruction and salvation alike.

For his part, he simply could not care less what naïve traitors and xenos thought of him. All that mattered was that he be told about these newly arrived Imperials.

"But let us not waste any more time, yes? We all know why you came, and with such haste."

"The transmission," Nemros demanded. "When?"

"Shortly after you departed for Nova Terra, we received a faint transmission at one of our comm relays out near the borders of Terminus Space," Sparatus explained, having recovered from earlier. "The technicians who heard it first could not understand it, so they passed it on the STG, who did manage to translate it. After that," he gestured to Valern, "My colleague here shared it with the rest of us."

Valern nodded with thanks at the acknowledgement, and then Tevos began to speak. "We wish to show you that we, despite all your provocations, are not your enemy." With that, she held up one arm, and the hololithic display that Nemros understood to be characteristic of omnitools sprung to life. "I have transmitted the coordinates that we extracted from the message to your ship, Captain. Again, we have Councilor Valern and the STG to thank for that. It is my understanding that matching such coordinates to our own star charts was much more complicated than simply translating."

"Thank you," Nemros gritted out, bile pooling in the back of his throat as he fought to force the words out past a rebellious tongue.

"We only have one thing to ask of you, Captain, in return," said the Turian Councilor, the sudden interjection the only thing keeping him from tearing out of the room and ordering Davriel to prepare the _Shadow_ for immediate departure.

"And what, pray tell, is that?" he said in a tone laced with annoyance.

* * *

 _The Enginarium was a scene ripped directly from a charnel house. The red robed forms of the Martian techpriests were scattered about, most of them dead, while others fought each other, locked in combat that was only half physical. Servitors stumbled about, tearing into each other with power weapons and heavy weaponry that had replaced entire portions of their bodies._

 _The Centurion ignored them all, eyes focused upon the sole figure that stood out amongst all the rest. Stepping over the unmoving forms of two Martian Adepts, their cybernetically-enhanced bodies twinned together in death, he advanced, blood boiling with rage at the sight of the instigator of all this madness._

 _A pair of pale-skinned brutes stepped forward, vat-grown amalgamations of flesh and circuitry. One raised an arm that terminated in a massive claw, seeking to crush him between the pincers. Sliding past the blow, he tore the battle servitor's arm off in a gout of blood and machine lubricant, before impaling the staggering menial with its own weapon. The other staggered forward, undeterred by the grisly death of its comrade, before the Centurion put a bolt into its skull, sending gore and gray matter everywhere._

 ** _"Ekron!"_** _he screamed as he turned his gaze back towards the instigator of this insanity, his voice amplified by his Mk. IV helmet's vox emitter until it was a guttural roar. It was a roar of pain, hate, betrayal, and sorrow at all that had been lost, a roar more fittingly found within the mouths of animals than men._

 _The power armored figure turned at the sound. "Ah, Thraes," Ekron said in dismissive tones. "I should have figured it was you coming."_

 _"What, in the name of the Emperor, do you think you're doing?" Thraes demanded, never relenting in his advance. One hand dropped to his chainsword._

 _"What does it look like I'm doing?" drawled Ekron as the Astartes Captain pulled his chainsword from his waist._

 _"It looks like you have gone mad, and we will all pay the price for your treachery."_

 _"Madness?" asked Ekron with a sneer, "Treachery? You_ dare _to speak to me of such things? You, who calls upon an Emperor that abandoned us to go play in the Imperial Dungeon while we fight and die amidst the uncaring cosmos?"_

 _"I will hear no more of this slander!" snapped Thraes, raising his chainsword and letting its throaty roar fill a room that was becoming progressively more silent as more and more techpriests fell beneath weaponry both exotic and mundane in nature._

 _"Truth is not slander!" roared Ekron in return, nearly deafening in volume. "It is because of your willing blindness that I ordered this, yours and everyone else who would rather kowtow to mortals than follow our father. It is because of Astartes like you that the coming battle, the coming_ war _, will be necessary at all!"_

 _"Our father would never condone this," Thraes said before slamming his chainsword down onto Ekron's._

 _"If you truly believe that," Ekron huffed in bitter amusement as he forced Thraes backward, "Then you are even more blind than I imagined. Truly he will thank me for what I have done here today."_

 _The two Astartes clashed, chainswords throwing sparks about wildly every time they met. Thraes stepped back, barely avoiding a strike that would have taken his head cleanly from his shoulders. It was stupid of him, he knew, fighting Ekron like this. The Company Captain was more skilled than him with a blade and had decades more experience than him to draw upon. But by this point his rage surged through his blood with all the force of an erupting volcano, and he refused to back down from his Brothers' killer._

 _As their blades crossed again, he let go with one hand and reached down to his hip, pulling the bolt pistol holstered there upwards. Snapping off a shot in the direction of his opponent's face, he forced Ekron to dodge and place himself on the defensive._

 _But the missed shot had more consequences than just that as it sailed off into the darkness of the Enginarium, in the direction of the Warp drive._

* * *

"Absolutely not."

The silence left in the wake of that pronouncement was impressive, given the looks that the xenos councilors were directing at him. The Asari councilor, Tevos, looked like she had bitten into an Istalsisan puckerfruit, while the Turian, Sparatus, shot him a glare of disappointment. Of the three, only the Salarian, Valern, looked like he had expected such a response, having carefully schooled his facial features into the perfect study of neutrality.

"When first we spoke on this station, you asked for the opportunity to study our technology, and were rebuffed," Nemros said, shaking his head as he did. "Do you take me for a fool, Councilors? Do you believe me swayed by your honeyed words and your offers of so-called friendship? We all know what you truly desire from this demand. For us to accept your assistance in recovering those who claim to be from the Imperium."

"And what, Captain," Sparatus spat his title venomously, "Is that?"

"Power," he responded. "You may cast it however you like. Perhaps," here his tone took on a grudging note," You truly do wish to claim our tech-lore, to utilize it to help your people. To destroy the Reapers without mercy. But simply because I am Astartes does not make me blind to what you would do with it after the Reapers are gone. Your races would seek to propel themselves above the rest, to squash the galaxy, to bring humanity, beneath your heel." Nemros jabbed a ceramite-clad finger at the trio, and they recoiled instinctively at the gesture. Fighting to keep the pleasure he felt from such a response from xenos out of his tone, he continued, "And at the forefront of it all would be the individuals responsible for acquiring such marvels of technology: you three."

The hand dropped back to his side. "I will not allow it, no matter how much you may rage otherwise."

"And why," Valern asked, speaking for the first time since the meeting had started, "Do you believe that? Why do you fear that we will pursue such a direction with your technology?

"Such is the way of the universe. Hear this, and hear this well, Councilors." Here Nemros paused, unsure if he wanted to say what he was about to say. Not because he feared the truth, far from it. But rather because such momentous truths seemed almost quaint when a mortal, even an Astartes, spoke them. As if mere words failed to convey the enormity of the truth behind them. "There is only war unending amongst the stars, the endless shedding of blood. It is the nature of Man and xenos alike, and no fanciful declarations to the opposite will ever change that."

"Your rampant violence is no surprise to us," Tevos said, eyes narrowing. "Do not think we have forgotten how you murdered Udina in his own office, while he was defenseless. And do not dare to presume we are like you."

"You are correct, even if only in one respect," Nemros said. "We are nothing alike. And if you mourn the loss of a poisonous viper in your midst, then you are even bigger fools than I imagined you to be."

The xenos bristled at that, even Valern's serene façade cracking. Nemros did not care. If they thought he would simply roll over for them and surrender the technological lore of humanity like the System Alliance leaders had, then they were gravely mistaken.

"It is only because of the greater threat that looms over us that I will overlook this offence. But know this, Councilors: there will be a reckoning between humanity and you, when all this is over, should you continue to pursue such a course," Nemros said as he turned to leave, gesturing for his Brothers to follow.

* * *

 _The universe was ending, and it was tearing him apart molecule by molecule._

 _Thraes had no idea what had truly happened, but he had a sneaking suspicion that his missed shot was the cause of it. One second he had been dueling his former Captain, determined to take his revenge even if it cost him his life in the process, and the next there had been a torrential outpouring of Warp energies. With a sound akin to the scream of a thousand dead futures, the Warp drive had been engulfed in a burst of unlight, before it blasted outwards across the ship._

 _For one eternity, condensed into the briefest of moments, all of the universe's basic laws were undone. The dead walked once more, healthy and hale, though the only noises they emitted were pained and disbelieving shrieks as their souls were torn from the Warp and forcefully re-implanted in their mortal shells, while adamantium aged into dust before reforming a heartbeat later as if nothing had happened. Through it all, he endured, gritting his teeth to keep from crying out from the pain._

 _The pain was good. It helped him focus. Before Nikea, before the Emperor, beloved by all, had restricted the usage of psychic powers, one of the Legion's Librarians had explained one of few fundamental truths that governed the Great Ocean: that those with the will and power to mold it could, though such things were only found simultaneously within a few gifted individuals._

 _Thraes was no psyker, but he could focus as well as any Astartes could. And now, he channeled all of his focus to keep his body under his control, to keep it unchanged._

 _Another surge of pain, and his concentration nearly slipped. To his shame, he screamed, long and loud, though at the moment he cared not for the loss of composure. Focusing on the act of announcing his agony to the Warp helped center him once more._

 _What a miserable stroke of fortune it was, he pondered, to die here. He, who had stridden a hundred worlds, bringing them the illumination offered freely by the Great Crusade, who had personally overseen the extermination of four different xenos breeds, who had been personally commended by his father to the jealous stares of his Brothers for his actions, was about to die a gloryless death._

 _And then, just as suddenly as it had occurred, it was all over. The tides of the Empyrean withdrew, leaving the most curious sensation of his body trying to reassemble itself in the face of reality's unyielding dictates._

 _Then the pain hit once more, and this time Thraes's vision turned black._

* * *

The _Duty's Shadow_ plowed through the roiling tides of the Warp. Even here, the Navigator had explained to Nemros when the two had briefly spoken after their arrival in this galaxy, despite the absence of the Dark Gods, despite the constant fighting that characterized their own galaxy, the Warp was still turbulent.

No matter how much some things changed, the more others remained the same. The Navigator had theorized that such tides were inherent to the nature of the Empyrean, merely being magnified rather than resulting from the presence of the Chaos gods. And now…

Nemros glanced at the massive bulkhead separating himself from the Navigator's chambers, where the prematurely aged, deceptively frail-looking wisp of a man steered the _Shadow_ through the Warp towards the destination that the Council's coordinates had placed the Imperial beacon at.

The message itself, delivered to him and Vargus had been little more than gibberish to his mind, riddles half shouted and half screamed by the man as the _Shadow_ plunged into the Warp, dutifully recorded by the servitor scribe that stood by the man's side. Madness rendered into words into revelations.

"He is not wrong. Momentous events are stirring, the effects of which stir the tides of the Sea of Souls."

Nemros glanced at the blue-clad Epistolary by his side. "Vargus?"

Vargus grit his teeth before responding, as if in pain. Given the effects that Warp travel took upon psychically sensitive individuals and the Navigator's claim, it would not surprise him if the Librarian was. "But there is something else, something hidden from even my second sight. Some terrible and most foul laughter that obscures something of fell importance, something that could damn us all before the end."

Nemros' hand shifted, coming to a rest on _Defiance_ 's hilt, body ready to move in a moment if necessary. "Do not delve into those paths, Vargus. Such knowledge only leads to madness."

Vargus inhaled deeply, then exhaled before responding, as if purging himself of some great burden. "I know, Brother-Captain. Such is the keystone of all psyker training. But even without exploring such trails through the Warp, the mere fact that they exist is enough to warn me that before all of this is over, we will be tested as we have been only a few times now."

The Librarian closed his eyes before finishing. "It, and the knowledge of it, will break us."

"We are of the Tower, Brother. _Nothing_ will break us, until the end of time itself." Nemros was glad he had his helmet on, to mask the furious expression that split his face.

"This, I fear, will."

* * *

 _He had no idea how much time had passed before his eyes opened once more._

 _Thraes pushed himself up with an agonized moan. Glancing upwards, he found himself accompanied only by corpses. Part of him was glad that no one was here to witness his weakness, but the rest of him realized just how bad the situation was with the_ Luna's Reach _'s tech-priest compliment decimated. Of Ekron there was no sign, no trace that the mad captain had ever even existed._

 _Thraes coughed, filling the inside of his helmet with a rich coppery tang. Fighting the urge to tear the armor piece off, he instead sent a mental urge, opening the vox link._

 _"Whoever is still loyal," he gasped before stopping momentarily. A surge of white filled his vision, brought on by a soul-searing surge of agony, before receding, leaving nerves aflame in its wake. Biting back a scream, he pushed on. "Report," he demanded, "Who is still alive that claims fealty to the Throne?"_

 _"Captain?" a voice came a moment later, and Thraes' twin hearts beat a flood of relief into his limbs. Rylais, he recognized the Sergeant's voice. If Rylais was still alive, then not all was lost. "Captain, where are you?"_

 _"The Enginarium," Thraes groaned as he forced himself to his feet, "Something happened."_

 _"I believe we all realized that the moment the ship flooded with Warp energies."_

 _"No," he said, his voice coming steadier and steadier with each syllable forced past his lips. "Something else. Something I must discuss with you as soon as possible."_

 _A moment passed as Rylais took that tidbit in. "Very well," he said finally, "My squad and I – what's left of it at least – are moving to secure deck seventeen. There are still reports of scattered fighting going on down there. Once we complete our sweep, I will make my way towards the command deck."_

 _Thraes swallowed a groan of pain and effort as he bent down to retrieve his battered chainsword. "Understood. Be careful down there Rylais."_

 _"You, out of all of us, are the absolutely last Astartes to say something like that," came the response before the vox link closed._

 _Closing his eyes to the last remnants of the Warp-induced pain, his enhanced physiology having already moved to begin healing what it could, Thraes began to move towards the Enginarium's exit, keeping his eyes closed the entire time. Yet despite his efforts to block out the carnage that surrounded him, his mind continued to replay the madness that he had witnessed._

 _"Throne," he hissed as the Enginarium's bulkhead rumbled shut behind him. "What a mess."_

* * *

 _"Does he suspect?"_

 _Rylais turned around, double checking that the vox link had truly closed before responding. The legionnaire that had asked the question was flicking gore off his combat knife and onto the body of the loyalist that he had killed. "Highly doubtful. Thraes has always been too single-minded for his own good. However, that does not mean any of you," here he paused, bringing his chainsword up to sweep it across the seven assembled legionnaires facing him, "are to do anything,_ anything, _that might tip him off. Am I understood?"_

 _Six of the seven nodded immediately, with the seventh following suit a moment later, almost reluctantly. Satisfied, he continued. "Our time will come, Brothers, have no worries. Ekron was a fool, acting as he did. If we are to redeem ourselves in the eyes of our father, we must act carefully."_

 _Another round of nods. "Good," he said, satisfied, "continue the sweep, and let us see if we cannot find any others who are followers of the rightful master of mankind."_

* * *

 _Death. Death and the ruination of mankind._

 _The sight of his Brothers broken, those unwilling to follow the rest into damnation sacrificed on altars to the True Gods, while humanity is thrown into the maw of the abyss wholesale, screaming in joy and horror the entire way down. And above it all presided himself, his form swollen to monstrous proportions as he looked on pridefully, gleeful that_ he _was responsible for all of it._

 ** _You fight, but inside, you know it to be true. You know that I speak no lies, not to you. Not to_** **us.**

No matter how much he tried to fight it, the Voice would not relent. It had not, ever since they had left the Citadel for the second time, on the fool's hope of finding those who would stand beside them without hesitation. Who would understand just what needed to be done in order to bring the Emperor's Light to this galaxy.

Yet for Vargus, there had been no false comfort by hope. The Voice would not even give him the cruel, poisonous gift of hope to torment himself with.

 ** _Hope is a lie. You pride yourselves on such knowledge, but when the reality comes face to face with you, you shudder and turn away, hoping to hide yourselves from the cruel truth of the universe. Who is stronger, those who acknowledge and accept such truth, despite how broken it leaves them, or those with the will to turn away and try to create their own hope?_**

 ** _Reckoning approaches in the form of the rejected, Vargus. Those who thought themselves foremost amongst the servants of the Gods, before their hubris was shattered by the failure of the Sacrificed King. Before they were hunted to the corners of the God's domain, driven to the brink of extinction._**

 ** _Soon, all will be revealed._**

 ** _I wonder…_**

 ** _How loudly will the galaxy scream in horror at the revelation?_**

In the depths of the _Duty's Shadow_ , Vargus shuddered, and had his eyes opened for him.

* * *

 _"My lord," protested the comm officer, the senior officer left aboard the drifting hulk that was the_ Luna's Reach. _"Such a plan is suicide. I may be no tech-priest, but even I can tell that such a course of action runs the risk of overloading the plasma reactor. Even if it doesn't blow us all up, we'll be left without power for who knows how long."_

 _"Do not question him, mortal," snapped Rylais from beside him, "Your duty is to serve, nothing more. Carry out your orders."_

 _Thraes held up one hand diplomatically. "Peace, Rylais," he ordered, "What he says has merit." The comms officer looked inordinately relieved at that, his spirit bolstered by Thraes' seeming acquiescence to reality. The next words to leave the Centurion's mouth, however, quickly and pitilessly crushed that relief._

 _"However, it does not matter. We can risk a swift death from the plasma reactor, or a slow one from isolation. Send the message across all frequencies. Do whatever you have to in order to boost the signal, and damn the consequences to the ship," he ordered. "We_ must _make contact, no matter the cost. Unless you feel like personally explaining to the primarch why we were lax in returning to his side, lieutenant?"_

 _"My lord," stammered the comm officer as he snapped a hasty salute before stumbling away._

 _"An astropathic signal would stand a better chance of getting out," Rylais said neutrally from beside him. "A message transmitted through space will take months, years even, to reach the nearest Imperial outpost."_

 _"The astropaths are dead. We will simply have to make do," Thraes said as he moved to exit the command deck. Rylais' voice stopped him before he could exit._

 _"Sir," said the Sergeant behind him. "What did the Captain say when you confronted him? Did he say exactly why he and our Brothers betrayed us, beyond that nonsense about our father?"_

 _Thraes closed his eyes momentarily before opening them once more. "Nothing," he said with a tone of finality. "Nothing but empty words and meaningless riddles."_

 _Without another word, he turned and walked out of the ruined command deck._

* * *

They had finally arrived.

Orbiting a dead world scoured clean by a dying star was the bulky form of an Astartes Strike Cruiser, though it was of an ancient design that Nemros struggled to recognize. Edging closer over the course of several hours, cautious of any potential trap, the _Duty's Shadow_ was now only a few thousand kilometers away from the gracelessly twirling adamantium hulk, practically a stone's throw in terms of space warfare.

"All weapons are primed and ready to fire at a moment's notice," Davriel reported from his place upon the command throne. "Auspex scans are returning now."

"And?" Nemros asked, turning away from the viewport to face the Shipmaster.

"The ship is dead," Davriel said in his flat mechanical monotone. "Not even a whisper remains of its machine spirit, and practically no energy beats from its plasma reactor. Whomever sent that distress message might very well be long dead by this point."

"We must hope, Shipmaster," Nemros said as reports began to filter across his helmet's visor. Taking a moment to read through them, he dismissed them with a thought before returning his attention to Davriel. "They may be our only hope of finding reinforcements within this damnable galaxy."

"Perhaps."

Nemros blinked, before turning to face the Shipmaster fully. "Perhaps?" he repeated, not fully understanding what Davriel had meant by that single word.

"I do not recognize the make of that Strike Cruiser," Davriel pointed out the viewport as he spoke, "Something I find very suspicious, considering how I make a point to familiarize myself with all Astartes and Imperial Navy vessels and their capabilities. This, though, has too many dissimilarities with Astartes Strike variants known to be currently in service. Whomever it belongs to, it is most certainly not a modern design."

"And you think that could mean trouble," the Captain said as he turned to fully consider the Shipmaster's words.

"This whole galaxy is nothing but trouble, and delights in heaping more upon us with every breath we draw," Davriel said. For a moment, Nemros could make out the underlying weariness pervading the man's very being. He sympathized. Ever since their unexpected arrival, everything had become progressively worse, something that burdened even him and his Brothers. He had no idea how the mortals were coping. The burden had to be immense. "Furthermore, we cannot make out any markings or Chapter insignia on its hull. There are evident signs of battle damage, but none of which lines up with known xenos or Chaos weaponry."

"Chaos weaponry rarely leaves anything approaching regularity when it comes to battle scars, given the foul nature of such armaments," Nemros said, though he understood internally what the Shipmaster was aiming at imparting to him.

"But such weapons, as blasphemous as they might be, are still human in nature at their core," Davriel said. "These marks look nothing like what human ships, be they Imperial or heretic, might leave in their wake."

"Then I will make sure to take care. Maintain this position, be ready for anything," Nemros said, before turning and exiting the command deck. Opening a vox link to the rest of his Brothers, he began choosing those who would follow him over onto the ostensibly Imperial vessel.

* * *

 _"They come."_

 _Thraes turned around from where he stood within the_ Luna's Reach's _armory. Normally he would have simply handed over his wargear to a techmarine for repairs and upkeep, but now he had to make do by himself. The sight of the impassive ceramite snout that graced Rylais' Mk. IV helmet greeted him as he completed the motion._

 _"Imperials?" he asked._

 _"Aye, a battle-barge by what few auspex returns that we could make out before the machine spirit gave out entirely."_

 _"So," Thraes said after a few moments of silence, "The_ Luna's Reach _is no more, then."_

 _Rylais said nothing, letting the void in the conversation say all that was needed._

 _"She will be missed," Thraes continued in his musings, lost in a dozen different memories, each one dredged up over the course of several decades aboard the Strike Cruiser. "And not the end I would have wished for her." Shaking his head slightly, he refocused upon Rylais. "You have called them together?"_

 _"Yes, Centurion. The other Imperials are making towards the portside hangar, so I have ordered our Brothers to assemble in parade formation there."_

 _"Good. Let's not keep them waiting then, shall we?"_

* * *

The Thunderhawk rumbled, it's engines echoing its namesake as landing gear extended to grace the adamantium floor of the hangar. Within, Nemros turned to Xeras and Vargus, motioning for them to stand ready. The other two Astartes moved to stand beside him, while behind them a number of their Brothers readied weapons. No one had an idea of what to expect to find behind this derelict hulk, and Nemros was taking no chance.

This galaxy had claimed enough Iron Sentinels, and he would be damned before his incaution killed any more.

There was a pneumatic _hiss_ as the forward ramp began to lower, and false light, dim in its intensity spilled into the hold from the Strike Cruiser's hangar. The trio of Astartes advanced down the ramp the moment it touched the adamantium deck, but the sight that greeted them stopped them cold.

Nigh on sixty Astartes stood before them, various weapons held in perfect parade posture. In the front, an Astartes officer stood, right hand sitting relaxedly upon the pommel of a chainsword, in a mirror of how Nemros' hand rested on _Defiance_. The other grasped the shaft of what had to be a company banner, richly adorned as it was by battle honors and oaths of vengeance.

Normally, the sight of such a force would have been a welcome one to Nemros. To see such a sight in this new galaxy was one that defied all expectations and hopes that he held within the deepest recesses of his soul. But there was one detail that soured the enormity of the moment, one flaw in the picture that shattered what otherwise would have been an event to rejoice over.

"Cousins," came a gravely voice from the foremost Astartes. "It is good to see Imperials again, Astartes especially, though I must confess I do not recognize your heraldry. From which lineage do you hail?"

Nemros stopped dead at the sight of the stranger's armor. In another moment, one less charged with sudden tension and surging, hateful gene-memories, he might have stopped to appreciate the irony in the two different groups simultaneously puzzling over each other's armor. But for now….

The stranger grunted when Nemros failed to respond. "Fine, remain silent then. It matters not to me if you speak, only that you take my Brothers and I from this place posthaste. Our father calls us to Istvaan III and we must not delay any further than we already have."

Nemros heard him, but his mind utterly failed to process the words that filtered through his helmet, so caught up in his shock and horror was he. The sea green armor, with the slitted Eye placed firmly upon the pauldron armor. And sitting squarely upon the warrior's chest plate, a leering red gem that seemingly stared straight back at him.

The livery of the Sons of Horus, the bastard spawns of the Warmaster.


End file.
